


Two Little Boys

by Chya



Category: CI5: The New Professionals
Genre: Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chya/pseuds/Chya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of progressive snapshots...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Alyse for assistance in getting cogs turning and Jill for encouragement. Rolf Harris and the First paired challenge.

"Hey, Joey! Betcha can't do this...!" called a young sandy haired boy from his perch halfway up a sprawling tree, the sun filtering warmly through viridian leaves as blue eyes gleamed mischievously in a bark-smudged grinning face. To demonstrate his dare, he launched himself off the branch into the air with a whoop, plummeting for a brief second before snagging a lower branch with his right hand. His body still swinging from the momentum, he hung there for a moment laughing, before hauling himself up and grinning triumphantly down at his friend.

"You're crazy, Chris! That's a stupid trick, anyhow!" Joey replied, poking moss off the old tree trunk with a stick in feigned boredom.

"Chicken!" Chris yelled in an attempt to provoke Joey into climbing up the tree.

  "Am not! I'll show you...!"

 "Oops, better not, Joey My dad's heading this way." Chris paused a moment, then asked. "Wanna play Star Wars?"

 "I get to be Luke Skywalker?"

 "Course!" said Chris gleefully, "But only if I get to be Han Solo! And Dylan's coming over later, so he can be Darth Vader."

  "Yeah!" Joey frowned as Chris climbed down the tree. "D'you think he'll have to bring the baby along?"

 Chris wrinkled his nose up and shrugged. "Yuk. Hope not. Don't like girls."

 "Now then, boys," a mildly stern voice interrupted as Chris' father joined them. "Dylan will indeed be bringing Teresa along. I trust you'll behave and let her join in your games?"

 "Okay, dad," Chris agreed, though his disgust was clear even as Joey echoed him.

 "Glad to hear it. Chris?" The older man crouched down in front of the boy, who instinctively knew that this was an adult moment. "I have to go to work this afternoon - "

"Aw, dad..."

"I know, son, but I've been called in and I'll probably be away for a few days. Be good and look after your mother, okay?"

"Yes sir." Chris replied miserably. He'd been looking forward to spending some rare time with his oft-absent father.

"Hey, chin up. Keel's don't feel sad and sorry for themselves, do they?"

"No sir." Chris grinned a little, trying to be happy even though he was horribly disappointed.

"Good. Now go, your mother has some lemonade for you."

Chris walked slowly up the lawn to where Joey was waiting, but his mind soon wandered onto more immediate problems. "Hey, Joey," he brightened up, "the baby can be Princess Leia!"

"She can?" asked Joey doubtfully. "Cause I don't want to have to play girls games."

"Me either, " agreed Chris, running towards the house with Joey hot on his heels, "But if she's Princess Leia, all she has to do is sit around doing nothing!"

"Yeah!" whooped Joey as they reached the kitchen door, laughing, to be met by Chris' mom who was armed with lemonade and Twinkies.

*****

"Hey, Sammy! Bet you can't do this...!" The grubby blond boy called as he edged slowly along the top of the flaking brick wall that surrounded the old abandoned factory, arms outstretched to keep his precarious balance.

"You're shot away, Davey! I wouldn't be stupid enough to try!"

"Chicken!"

"Am not! I'll show you...!" Fierce determination glittered in Sammy's grey-green eyes as he ran back to the gate where Davey had climbed up and proceeded to follow his friend up onto the wall.

He had barely reached the top when a high-pitched voice called out from below. "Ummm, I'm telling on you! You're not s'posed to do that!"

Sammy wriggled around to sit on the wall and saw Davey carefully lower himself to the same position. They both shunted along until they were close enough to present a united front to the little girl and her two playmates.

"You tell and I'll pull your pigtails, Annabelle Brown!" called Davey, laughing.

"And I'll put frogs in your bed!" added Sammy, not quite as sure as Davey that he'd carry through the threat. But they were girls, and that meant they scared easily.

Annabelle narrowed her eyes and pouted, folding her arms. "Ooh! If you do that, Davey Brown, I'll tell daddy it was you that let Mr. Duckford's pigeons out!"

Davey laughed again, but it sounded a little nervous now. "It's not my fault they was the only homing pigeons in the whole wide world that didn't know where home was!"

"You'll get a right belting, you will! And you, Sammy Curtis, I'll tell your mum that you've been nicking apples and Marathon bars from the corner shop!"

Sammy cringed but put a brave face on, sweeping his too long dark hair from his dirty face. "Dunno what you're on about, Annabelle Brown. You're making it up!"

"No I'm not!" A sly grin crossed Annabelle's face. "Course, you get me some and I won't tell anything."

"He'll do it, won't you, Sammy?" grinned Davey.

Sammy grinned back; anything to stay out of trouble.

"Oh, don't think you're off the hook, Davey Brown!" Annabelle snapped. "I got sums homework, and you can do it. You'd better get it right too, or I'll make up something worse than the pigeons to tell daddy!"

Davey groaned. "All right, but you better not snitch on us!"

"Never!" laughed Annabelle, skipping away with her friends in tow.

"Your sister's a cow, Davey," scowled Sammy.

"Yep," smiled Davey. "But she'll get hers, don't worry."

"Who's worrying?" Sammy grinned, "It's you that's got to do her homework!"

*****

"That was so cool," Emily Hazlett smiled shyly, looking up at Chris through lowered lashes. "And very brave."

Chris felt himself blushing and felt suddenly awkward. "Uh, wasn't anything, really," he shrugged, with an equally shy smile.

"But it was! I mean, no one's ever stood up for me be- "

"Hey, Chris, ready to go? We got a party to go to!" Joey slapped Chris on the back as he came into the conversation.

"Yeah, I'm coming. Uh, you'll be at the party tonight, right, Emily? Maybe we could...?"

"Sure, and I'd love to," Emily smiled and, grinning broadly, Chris let himself be led away by Joey. By the time they were approaching home, the pair had been joined by Dylan and Terry.

"Can I come to the party, Chris?" the blonde girl asked hopefully.

Chris laughed, "Sure you can, kiddo, if your dad'll let you stay out that late."

"No chance of that," Dylan said soberly. "She's grounded for - ugh-!"

"Don't you dare!" Terry told her big brother.

"Anyway," grimaced Chris, turning serious for a moment. "I'm not sure there's going to be a party. The old man's home and he's gonna freak when he sees me."

Joey looked at him critically. "You've had worse. It'll be cool. See you later, then?"

"Counting on it." Chris smiled and peeled off to limp up the driveway to his home.

His father was waiting at the door, obviously having seen his dishevelled state through a window, and Chris' heart fell as he recognised the carefully neutral expression on his face that was the closest the boy ever got to seeing his father angry. The elder Keel never got mad, and Chris often found himself wishing his old man would so that he'd have something to rail against.

He put on his best cocky face, sauntering up to the door as well as his bruised knee allowed to stand before his father, staring defiantly into the older man's brown eyes, awaiting the lecture he knew was coming.

"What do you mean by coming home in this state again?" the elder Keel asked, disappointment evident in his calm tone. "I thought we'd discussed this. And today of all days."

"You discussed it, dad, I just got to listen." Chris felt himself slipping from cocky to mutinous. "It wasn't my fau-"

"I've heard it before, Christopher, and it's high time you took responsibility for your actions."

Chris clenched his jaw in frustration. Why was it that adults always assumed the worst? He chose to forget about the fights that he'd helped instigate, feeling self-righteous that this was one occasion when he'd been in the role of the defender.

"You're to go to straight to your room and clean up. Have your mother look at those grazes and then your grandparents are waiting for you."

Chris started to push angrily past his father, but the clipped voice stopped him.

"Enjoy the party tonight, Christopher. You'll be grounded afterwards."

"But - !"

"Enough! We'll discuss your punishment further in the morning."

"Yes, sir," Chris muttered and stormed up to his room.

An hour later, after a hot shower and an eternity of his mother fussing over him, he was dressed and ready to join the rest of the family. Looking in the mirror, he thought he even looked a bit dashing with the black eye and graze along one cheek.

He sighed and braced himself. His grandparents - on his father's side - were okay as grandparents went, but his grandmother was so soapy and gushing it was embarrassing. He was fifteen years old today, almost a man, and if she pinched his cheeks and kissed him he was quite sure he'd hurl. His grandfather was pretty cool, though, and Chris idolised him, soaking up the stories of his adventures in the Navy. But the eldest Keel did have a tendency to ramble on at length about technicalities and specifications of battleships that bored him stupid.

Resigned to his fate, Chris reluctantly sloped down the stairs and into the main room.

"Darling!" screeched his grandmother and he cringed as she swooped over to him. She pinched his cheek and slapped a wet kiss on his forehead with fuchsia lips, then enfolded him in a matronly hug. "You poor, poor boy. Look at you!"

"Thanks, Grandma, I'm fine. Really." Cringing, Chris extricated himself with difficulty from her embrace, only to find the two elder Keel men looking at him with identical expressions of disapproval.

"Fighting again, Christopher?" asked his grandfather.

Chris looked at the floor. "Yes sir," he muttered, abruptly ashamed.

"Did you win?"

He looked up sharply. "Yes sir," he said, slowly, wondering what was coming.

His grandfather nodded and looked at his son. Chris saw them exchange a meaningful look that puzzled him.

"Over here, boy. I want to give you something," the eldest Keel said, standing ramrod straight as he placed a polished plain wooden box on a table.

Chris limped over stiffly and, at the older man's indication, opened it. Inside, on a worn velvet cushion, was an old set of duelling pistols in pristine condition. He stared at them, the boy in him exploding with joy at the excitement of the gift, the burgeoning man in him wondering what connotations the pistols represented.

The box snapped shut, making him jump.

"These are not toys, Christopher," his grandfather told him. "Your father didn't want me to give you these just yet; he doesn't think you're responsible enough and I'm inclined to agree with him." The older man put his hand up to silence Chris' objections. "But, I won't be with you much longer. I have cancer, and I wanted you to have them while I was still here to give them to you myself. So, your father will hold them until he thinks you've grown up enough to treat them as you should. They represent the history and tradition of this family and I trust that you won't let us down..."

Chris was reeling, the older man's voice phasing into an unintelligible buzz, drowned by the roaring in his own ears. His grandfather, his hero, was dying, and yet the old bastard was telling him like he was going on vacation or something, dropping a bombshell in the midst of going on about values and responsibility. His father was unmoved, and even his grandmother was chattering away quietly to his mother as if the whole thing was unimportant.

He felt the anger that always seemed to be with him bubbling up. It was always the same in this family. Be happy, be disciplined, work hard. Never show weakness in tears or anger. He became aware of the silence and two men looking at him expectantly.

"Sir," he said faintly. "Thank you, sir."

"Happy birthday, Christopher." His grandmother swooped down on him again, but this time he was too shocked to resist.

*****

"Happy birthday, Sammy."

Sammy paused at the kitchen door in the dull grey morning light. His father was standing at the dinner table upon which lay an envelope and a small, brightly wrapped package.

He looked at his father properly for the first time since his mother had passed away just a few months before. He was a shell of the man he had been. Where he had once been the dominant force in the house, Sammy realised that he himself had taken on that role.

He'd dropped out of school at the end of the last year, taking cash in hand work at the local canning factory and supplementing his meagre income with other, more discreet work. But today he was sixteen and didn't have to lie about his age anymore.

Wordlessly he glided over to the table and picked up the envelope. Inside was a cheap, thin card with a watercolour picture of a red Ferrari Testerossa on the front. He stared at the writing inside.

"You - you've put 'Sam'..." he said softly.

His father nodded and pulled out one of the chairs, lowering himself into it. "You're a man now, Sam, and it seemed... fitting. I'm sorry about the present. I didn't have enough - it's not even mine to give. It was your mothers."

Sam picked up the little package and unwrapped it carefully to find a small coloured cardboard box, folding the wrapping paper up for future use. He opened up the box to reveal a small, delicate gold medallion on a chain. In the centre was a bearded man holding a book.

"St. Jude," his father explained. "Patron saint of desperate situations and lost causes. You know how your mother always fought for the underdog."

"I know," Sam choked out. He'd been trying hard to forget how much he missed her brightness and laughter, even her fiery temper. The house had been so melancholy and depressing since she'd gone.

The older Curtis reached into his back pocket and held out a building society passbook. "I know what you do, I know the kids you run with. I don't want you to be a lost cause."

Sam took the book and his eyes widened as he saw the balance. "I - I can't - !"

"There's enough there for you to go to night-school, get some exams. Maybe enough to get you into university, the first year anyway. You're bright, and I don't want you to rot away here. It was your mother's idea. I'm sorry, I didn't want to use any of it for a present as well..."

"B -but what about you...?"

His father smiled, a rare sight these days and a ghost of the broad toothy grin he'd often displayed before Sam's mother had passed away. "I'll be fine. I retire next year, and you wouldn't believe it, but the railway pension will give me a better income than their wage does."

Sam swallowed hard. "I-I'll take the night classes, but... university? I don't know..."

"It's what your mother wanted." There was a note of desperation in the older man's voice and Sam nodded, but left the bankbook and medallion on the table as he headed for the door.

He paused. "Thanks, dad."

He left the house without waiting for a response, his mind a whirl. He was being given an opportunity he'd never even contemplated before, and the sudden possibilities that were opening up before him were overwhelming in their potential. But already his mind, always planning, was anticipating a trip to the local Tech College after work.

"Hey, Sammy, hang on!" a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.

Sam turned around and smiled as Davey jogged up to him. His friend looked ill, as he always did these days, thin and tired. Probably something to do with the drugs he was taking.

"It's 'Sam' now," he told Davey.

"What? Ohhh... your birthday!" Davey slapped a palm against his head in mock dismay. "Fuck, and I forgot. The big 'un too, ain't it? Tell you what, I just heard the McKenzie's are away this weekend, and you know they've been bragging about that thirty two inch teletext telly they've just got? What d'you think? Jack'll give us cash for it, a couple hundred quid, could really celebrate then."

Sam thought about it for a moment. He knew the McKenzie house, was pretty certain that it had the standard locks and no alarms. Low risk, then. "All right," he agreed. "Tonight. Got something to do after work, but I'll meet you at the pub later on."

"Great, I'll get Belle to bring some friends back to my place after the job," Davey smirked.

Sam chuckled, his eyes twinkling, "Ah, the beautiful Belle. What wouldn't I give to have my wicked way with her."

"Oi! That's my sister you're talking about!" Davey slapped him on the arm. "I'm not having you treat her like the rest of the toms round here. Mind you, think she'd give it you for free if you asked nice."

"Maybe I'll try that," grinned Sam. Annabelle was, after all, growing up to be one of the best lookers around.

*****

The tension in the car was almost palpable as Edward Keel drove his son home. The sullen anger radiating from the passenger seat was as great as his own, and he was at his wits end as to what to do with the boy.

Ever since his father - Chris' grandfather - had succumbed to the cancer the boy, now seventeen, had gone wild. While he had always had a talent for getting into brawls at school, and seemed to have inherited his grandfather's explosive temper, the boy had generally behaved himself and done reasonably well academically. But now he seemed to have graduated to street fighting and truancy, and Edward didn't even want to think about what else there might be.

Tonight was the last straw. Picking up his son from the police station was bad enough, but with the charges of underage drinking and instigating a brawl in a bar... knives and broken bottles had been involved and Chris had been damned lucky to have come out of it with nothing more than a hangover and the usual assortment of grazes and bruises.

He'd tried talking to the boy but those blue eyes, identical to his mother's, would turn to ice and his jaw would clench; the kid could give lessons to a clam. He'd sent him off to a therapist, naturally, but that seemed to have no impact at all, and the sessions had dried up after he'd had enough of paying for hours where Chris either didn't turn up, or sat in mutinous silence.

He'd even tried talking to Joey and Dylan, Chris' best friends since they were toddlers. But all they could, or would, say was that they just didn't see him around anymore. Even Emily, Chris' girlfriend, only indicated that she thought they'd split up as he didn't call anymore.

Edward sighed heavily; it was time to give Chris the discipline and opportunity that he had discussed with his own father just over two years ago. With Chris' academic record taking a nosedive it had taken some string pulling, but with both his father and himself being alumni, combined with Chris' historically good record, the potential had been seen.

Edward blamed himself of course. If only he had been at home more, had been around to enforce the discipline that his wife would only threaten. It seemed that every time he returned from his Naval duties a longer list of his only child's transgressions awaited him, of which most were too long past for belated discipline to have any effect. He just hoped that the next step would rectify all that; cut the boy off from the downhill route he currently seemed intent on taking.

**

"What?" Chris looked at him in angry horror. "You can't! I won't go and you can't make me!"

"I can, and you will," Edward said firmly. "The arrangements have been made. You leave for the Academy in two weeks. End of discussion."

"It always is with you!" Chris stormed out of the house and Edward slumped, emotionally exhausted, into a chair. He just didn't understand his son, and prayed that he was doing the right thing. He'd tried his best to give the boy a stable home life, emotionally as well as financially, so that he wouldn't grow up in the kind of emotional roller coaster that had marked his own childhood. He berated himself again for spending too much time away.

He felt his wife glide into the room and place a hand on his shoulder.

"Do we have to do this?" she asked. "He's so young."

"It's the only thing left," he replied, trying to reassure himself as well as her.

**

When Edward left Chris at the military school, he couldn't seem to rid himself of the chills from the hurt, hate-filled stare his son aimed at him. The boy had said a cordial goodbye to his mother, but turned his back on his father without a word.

He'd done the right thing. Hadn't he?

*****

Sam sat on the bed, holding Davey in his arms. Belle sat on the opposite side of her brother, a flannel in her hands. At sixteen she already looked closer to thirty, and Davey... Davey looked like an old man.

He was dying.

Both Sam and Belle knew that it was only a matter of hours now and, though they both hated it, they respected Davey's wish not to die in hospital. He'd caught this new disease, the one everyone was up in arms about, probably through sharing needles though with Davey you could never tell. And Davey wanted to die safe in his own home with his friends and family, not in the sterile ostracism he'd find in hospital.

It was in those few hours that Sam finally decided that he was going to get himself out of the gutter, make something of himself. And he'd start by going to university. He'd already found an affinity for languages and had breezed through 'O' and 'A' levels at night-school, getting his final results only a week previously - straight A's.

He refused to die like Davey. Sell himself like Belle. Or more likely given his nocturnal pastimes, end up in prison. He'd get as far away from here as he could and make a fresh start.

They buried Davey a week later. The week after that, Sam received acceptance on a scholarship into Edinburgh University.

His father saw him off on the train, and Sam felt a pang of guilt at the sight of the prematurely bowed old man for once standing proudly, waving, alone on the platform as the train pulled out of the station.

Sam pulled the small box from the side of his holdall and opened it, touching the little piece of gold within. He vowed on his mother's grave that he would never be one of life's lost causes.

*****

Chris tuned out the long speeches and ignored the butterflies in his stomach.

Today was the day he graduated from Annapolis.

He glanced over to the crowd of proud parents, knowing his own were there even though he couldn't see them, knowing how proud they were. Even his father.

Honour.

The last few years had been a real eye-opener and he'd very quickly learned how tolerant his father had been, the discipline at the Academy being hard and swift, but ultimately fair. His anger had been channelled and controlled, and the staff therapist had finally gotten him to open up and see that his feelings were both important and in a lot of ways justified, but also that there was a lot more to life than just himself. They'd encouraged him to question his own motivation, question why he spent so much time getting into fights, and the answers had surprised him. On the one hand there was the need to express, something denied him at home, but there was also the need to defend the weak, protect the innocent and support the underdog.

Courage.

Understanding himself had brought a sense of clarity, and for the first time he knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life.

Commitment.

The tone of the speaker changed and brought him back to the present. A moment later he joined his classmates in cheering, throwing their hats up into the air.

As graduates and parents merged, he saw his father's beaming face and felt immensely proud to have made his old man proud.

**

Edward ushered his son into the study before he would allow him out onto the lawn to mingle with the guests they'd invited to welcome the boy - young man - home. This was the first time Chris had been home for anything more than a flying visit since that dreadful day he'd been sent to the Academy, choosing instead to stay away.

Closing the door, Edward bore the awkward silence while he retrieved the wooden box and placed it on the table. He studied Chris who stood at ease in his uniform, a calm self-confidence about him though his eyes still gleamed as mischievously as they had when he was a boy. Edward was finally assured that he'd done the right thing.

He pushed the box over to his son who made no move to take it.

"It's yours," Edward prompted. "You've earned the right to keep it."

Chris nodded and smiled tentatively. "I put you through some hell, didn't I?"

Edward inclined his head slightly. No apologies; they'd both been right, both been wrong. "Life was... interesting. But that was then, and this is now. What about the future? Have you decided what you're going to do?"

"Yes sir." Chris met his eyes, almost but not quite challenging. "I've been accepted into CNATRA."

Edward was surprised. "Naval aviation?" Then he smiled. "Ah, yes, your childhood propensity for falling out of trees. Appropriate."

"You approve?" The question was flat, but Edward thought he detected an undercurrent of hope.

"Do you need my approval?" Again, Chris met him with that almost challenging blue gaze.

"No," the younger man said softly. "But I'd like it."

Edward smiled. "Of course you have my approval. I'm proud of you. And I know I'll be proud of whatever you decide to do." He hesitated a moment. "You're not doing this because you think it's what I want? What your grandfather wanted?"

Chris smiled genuinely at him for the first time in far too long and shook his head. "No, this is what I want to do," he said with a quiet determination that, if possible, made Edward swell even further with pride. He pushed the box towards Chris again, and this time the young man took it.

"Thank you, sir," he said, then hesitated. "Are you coming outside...?"

"I think I will," replied Edward. "We'll go out there together." And Chris unleashed the brilliant grin that the father had almost forgotten his son possessed.

Chris was polite and charming to the many people that were scattered over the lawn drinking and nibbling at canapés. He didn't know or barely remembered many of them, but a Keel garden party was a must-attend function, no matter what the occasion. He wasn't really comfortable there, but he couldn't deny his mother either the thought or the opportunity. Even Emily Hazlett was there with her fiancé, although her greeting was courteously cool.

He soon spied another familiar face, and grinned in genuine joy. "Joe! Great to see you, glad you could come!"

"Chris! You - I don't believe it!" Joe was staring at him like he was an alien and Chris looked down to check his fly and shoelaces. "Dylan, look!"

"What?" Chris asked bewildered, as Dylan's face appeared and he too looked him up and down.

"You're right, Joe, he's changed. Not our Chris any more." Dylan said seriously.

"Nope, not a bruise or graze in sight. A tragic loss to the makers of band-aids, but I'm sure the trees'll breath easier," Joe dead-panned.

Chris eyes narrowed dangerously even as he fought to keep his lips from twitching with laughter. "I learned how to duck," he told them, before all three exploded into hilarity.

"Now, boys, can anyone join in?" a vaguely familiar female voice interrupted them.

Chris looked up and blue eyes met blue, clashing and zinging, the air vibrating around them. Stunned, he barely heard Dylan.

"You haven't forgotten Terry, have you?"

Terry? Teresa? This vision of gorgeous sexiness was the same fat spotty kid that Dylan had never been able to get rid of? "How could I forget?" Chris smiled and took her hand, not even realising that he was still gazing into her eyes.

"Hooked!" yelled Joe, happily. "She's got him hooked!"

He's probably right, Chris thought, and right at this moment everything was so absolutely perfect he couldn't possibly imagine anything ever going wrong again.

*****

Sam accepted the degree and strode across the stage with his head held high.

He'd done it.

He'd slogged his guts out every inch of the way, pushed himself ruthlessly in his studies, worked all hours at the garage to earn the money, and soaked up all the information thrown at him; and he'd done it. Not only in languages, but also mechanics at the garage and, due to one of his housemates, Aaron, who'd decided for some unknown reason to take him under his wing, he'd learned to appreciate fine wine and opera. Being of a similar build, Aaron had even let him borrow his designer clothes and suchlike in exchange for free maintenance on his MG.

After the graduation he met his father with his lady friend, Eleanor, outside. His father gave him a hug as Eleanor stood by and beamed at him. She was a rich widow that his father had apparently met by the deli counter at Safeways - according to him a dead ringer for the actress, Ingrid Sommelson, though Sam couldn't see it. And, while a part of Sam disliked her on principal - she wasn't his mother - the greater part couldn't deny that she made his father happy and it had been a relief and a pleasure to see him regain his former confidence and good cheer. The old man looked a good deal younger and more vibrant than he had when he'd waved his son off on the train four years previously.

Seeing the genuine pleasure on Eleanor's face, for him or for his father he couldn't say, Sam took her hand and leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek. Her smile grew broader and she squeezed his fingers gently before letting go.

Sam took them to a good restaurant to celebrate, having saved up enough to do so, but Eleanor quietly intercepted and paid the bill, leaving him slightly off-balance, on the one hand feeling patronised by the gesture, but on the other, the simple unheralded discretion she used made him feel guilty for resenting it and grateful that he could keep his hard-earned cash.

Catching up on gossip, Sam was pleased to hear that Belle had found herself a husband, a decent man who'd helped her clean up, and that she was expecting their first child. But the biggest news left him reeling.

"Sam," said his father quietly. "I don't want to undermine your big day, but I, we, have to tell you something."

"What? What is it?" he asked, sensing the seriousness and dreading what the news could be.

"Eleanor and I - well, Sam, Eleanor has agreed to become my wife. I honestly think your mother would approve, and I hope you will too."

Sam was shocked, numbed. Dad having lady friends, yes. But marrying?

"Sam," Eleanor leaned forward. "I would never, ever, try to replace your mother. I've heard a lot about her, and she sounds like a very special person that I wish I could have known. But, your father and I, we're at a time in our lives where we need companionship, and being of the old school we both feel that it would be improper not to marry."

Sam stared, incapable of much else. He saw her mute plea for understanding, his father's chiselled features preparing for rejection.

"Congratulations," he finally said when he'd found his voice. "I hope you'll be very happy." He tried to smile but failed miserably, and the rest of the evening passed in awkward small talk.

Sam felt as though he was being abandoned by the one person who had always been there for him. They'd always been there for each other, especially after his mother had died. And now his father was moving on, getting on with his life. But hadn't that been exactly what Sam himself had done when he'd moved up to Scotland? Well, yes... but that had been different somehow.

As if reading his thoughts, his father leaned in after Eleanor had excused herself to go to the ladies. "I'll never be far away," he said. "I'm still here for you, and that'll never change. You do know that, don't you?"

Sam smiled inside and out as he recognised the truth, even though the abandoned feeling still remained. "Yes," he said, "I do know that. And she makes you happy, I can see that. Go for it, dad."

"There's one thing I haven't asked you, son."

"What's that, dad?"

"What are you going to do now you've got your fancy degree?"

Sam gave him a puzzled half-smile. "I'm - not exactly sure, dad. I got a very strange letter the other day..."

*****

Chris climbed out of his F-14 Tomcat and down to the faux tarmac of the aircraft carrier. He was hot and exhausted, but he loved this job and wouldn't change it for anything in the world.

He joined in the customary group back-slapping that followed a job well done and went down to the debriefing room with the rest of the flight crews. Half an hour later they all came out of the room with delighted whoops of joy; they'd been on tour longer than expected due to some political unrest in the Gulf, but they'd just got the word that they were going home on leave.

Chris was orbiting Mars in his excitement at finally getting home. In the typically mad rush as he'd left for this tour, he'd impulsively asked Terry to marry him. To his absolute delight she'd said yes and, forgoing an engagement party, had been busy fielding both their mothers as they arranged the wedding. No mean feat while simultaneously working on her own career in Naval Intelligence.

It was going to be a huge affair, although both he and Terry would have preferred something more low-key. But it was their families' day almost as much as it was theirs and they both found themselves going along with the flow.

The only disappointment was that Dylan wasn't going to be there. On a fast-track with the CIA, he had been informed by his superiors that he would be tied up elsewhere, and not even his sister's wedding was important enough to release him. Dylan, being Dylan, had implied that he'd find some way to be there, and Chris sincerely hoped he managed it. However, it had meant that it had been easier to pick his best man, Joe naturally.

There was nothing that could have wiped the Cheshire cat grin off his face as he queued with the others for his turn with the Sat. phone.

*****

Sam sat by himself in the wine bar, brooding. He'd just come off the mission where he'd made his first kill. He hadn't even had the luxury of it being via a bullet; it had been the hands-on snapping of a man's neck, and he felt utterly sick.

He'd taken up the offer in the mysterious letter after graduating, intrigued by the secrecy and stealth that surrounded the whole recruitment process, and committed himself once he understood that he had a chance to make a difference. He'd been thrown straight into the army on a graduate training scheme, and after his first posting had spent what seemed like eons assigned to MI6 translation services in between intensive internal training courses. But finally he was out in the field. A novice, to be sure, about to be assigned his first partner, but it was something he had found himself enjoying, the unpublicised skills from his childhood unexpectedly standing him in good stead.

Until now.

He was having second thoughts and his controller had told him to take time out, explaining that the first kill was never easy. That if it was, he'd have already been kicked out. And further, that to take a human life should never be easy, no matter how corrupted or insane that life was. Once it became easy, then it was time to call it quits.

"Excuse me, may I join you?" A sultry voice interrupted Sam's thoughts and he looked up to see a strong beautiful face smiling down at him. "I'm sorry," she continued. "I'm waiting for someone and all the other seats seem to be taken."

"Please," Sam offered her the chair, taking in her deep green eyes and the long raven locks that framed her lightly made up face. "Sam Curtis," he introduced himself, glad of the interruption. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Oh, thank you," she smiled at him, showing off perfect white teeth. "Laura, pleased to meet you."

They chatted for a while, and Sam found his maudlin thoughts swept away by Laura's understated vivacity and intelligent conversation. When he suggested that they might do dinner one evening, she grimaced slightly and looked away.

"I'm afraid I have a confession," Laura finally said, a chagrined smile playing about her full lips.

"Oh?" Sam asked quizzically.

"I'm not really waiting for anyone." She looked down into her glass, biting at her lip.

Sam considered her with a raised eyebrow. "You're not?"

She shook her head. "I'm Laura Henwood, and as of tomorrow I'm going to be your partner. That is, according to Stephen Allen." She looked up at him, eyes twinkling merrily. "I wanted a preview. Do you mind?"

Staring at her, Sam was momentarily lost for words. "Partner?" he finally croaked. "And I was coming on to you..."

Laura looked him squarely in the eye. "Yes, you were. And I wasn't objecting."

Sam wondered if this was some kind of test and answered cautiously. "But this new information puts a whole different light on things, doesn't it?"

"It does," agreed Laura. "But it doesn't have to." She smiled, and slowly flicked her tongue over her lips with an unmistakably flirtatious wink.

Picking up his glass Sam simply smiled in reply, toasting her before taking a large gulp.

*****

Chris sat behind the wheel of his '66 Mustang, the engine idling as he contemplated the ruin his life had become and the edge of the cliff in front of him.

They were all dead. The last one had been cremated yesterday.

The dream come true had turned into a hellish nightmare, and he didn't know what he wanted to do. He wanted to join them, but he didn't want to die. He wanted to tear the bastard responsible for it apart with his bare hands, but didn't know where to start. He wanted to... he didn't know. He wanted someone to tell him what to do, what to say, what to feel, so that he wouldn't have to think for himself. Because if he didn't have to think, maybe he wouldn't feel. But that didn't work, because he was feeling anyway.

Although it was all clouded by a shocked numbness, his feelings were chaotic and muddled. There was sorrow and grief for sure, but the guilt and anger battered away at him relentlessly. He didn't know why he'd been left alive and was convinced it was a mistake, which was why he was contemplating the cliff edge. But the anger and instinctive desire to keep fighting squelched any thoughts of suicide before they seriously began to take hold.

He winced as he heard another vehicle pulling onto the cliff top and turned off the Mustang's ignition while he waited to see who it was. He wanted to be left alone to sort through things himself, but no matter where he went someone always found him, each certain in their own way that the bereaved should not be left alone.

The Harley pulled up beside the Mustang's driver's side and Dylan took his helmet off.

"Not thinking of -?" he asked Chris, who shook his head with a wry smile.

"Just wanted space to think."

Dylan hesitated a moment. "Me too. Nearly turned around when I saw your car."

Chris looked at his best friend and brother-in-law. "Thought you were part of Joe's mother's army of well meaning smotherers when I heard your engine."

Dylan laughed hollowly. "Trust me, I know exactly how you feel on that score. She's only doing it so she doesn't have time to acknowledge Joe's gone."

Chris nodded; he understood that. He also understood that Dylan was probably the only person in the world who knew how he was feeling, having had most of his family wiped out too. But Dylan hadn't been there. The CIA had still refused to release him for the wedding, and had then been forced to release him anyway for the aftermath of the massacre. Dylan hadn't watched it happen, hadn't watched loved ones exploding, tumbling and falling, geysers of blood erupting, dead eyes rolling, hadn't held her...

"What are you going to do?" asked Dylan finally.

Chris shrugged. "I don't know. Sell up everything here I expect. I don't want to have to come back again."

Dylan nodded. "Me either."

After a long awkward silence where each young man found it increasingly difficult to bear the other's presence, Chris started the engine again and shifted into reverse.

"Take care, Dylan," he said. "I'll see you around."

"You too," Dylan replied with a half-smile as the Mustang pulled away. Neither acknowledged that they would probably never meet again; it would simply hurt the both of them way too much.

*****

Sam leaned into the kiss, exploring her mouth, tongues duelling for dominance, his hands under her blouse caressing velvet skin, bodies pressed together, electricity pulsing between them.

Laura pulled away with a laugh. "People are staring. It's probably not a good idea to have sex in the middle of Victoria Station."

Sam groaned, wishing they had time to find somewhere a little more private. Right now, the ladies toilet would have done. "I don't know how long I'll be gone this time. I hate these solo missions, like having you there to cover my back," he told her. "You'll still be here?"

Laura shook her head, sweeping her hair from her merrily rolling eyes. "Of course I will, Sam. Same as I always am. Don't think Allen or MI6 would appreciate it otherwise, do you? Now go, or you'll miss both your train and your flight."

"I wish - "

"Shhh," Laura whispered. "Don't wish for what can't be, just appreciate what we have, yes?"

Sam leaned in once more for a final kiss before boarding the Gatwick shuttle. He slumped down into a window seat, glowing from her intimate contact and missing her already.

He counted himself lucky to have found Laura. She was witty and intelligent, sophisticated and self-confident. She gently corrected the East End accent he was trying so hard to get rid of and bullied him into buying the latest fashions for himself - not that he needed much on that score. He'd even told her about Davey and Belle, things that not even MI6 knew about, shared some of the more sordid parts of his earlier life with her. She backed him to the hilt in the field, was coolly professional on the job and sensually passionate on their own time. She knew when to make him laugh, knew when to sit quietly and listen, and the sex was terrific. In short, she was perfect; he trusted her with his life and he worshipped her.

*****

Chris presented himself at his commanding officer's quarters as requested.

"Lieu - Keel, come in, take a seat."

"Sir," Chris sat as instructed, albeit stiffly.

"This is an informal meeting," the older man said, "so relax. Drink?"

"No, thank you sir." He waited while the other man poured himself a scotch and sat down opposite him with a sigh.

"Keel, you're a good officer, a damned fine airman and you command a lot of respect from your peers. You wouldn't have come so far, so fast, if none of this were true. But I have a problem."

"Sir?" Keel knew what was coming, had known it had been coming for some time and was surprised it had taken this long.

"Some of the stunts you've pulled recently have been borderline suicidal, but you've pulled them off. I've had men in here refusing point-blank to fly with you. Equally, I've had men in here begging to be allowed to fly with you in the hopes that some of the glory will rub off. There's even a betting pool on how many more citations you'll get before you take the one-way mission. I cannot and will not tolerate such behaviour on board my ship."

"No, sir." Keel kept his gaze locked on the wall behind his commanding officer. He knew full well he was being stupid, taking risks no sane person would have done, but he had to vent his anger somehow and simply talking wasn't enough. Even flying faster than the speed of sound wasn't enough anymore. He'd taken a leaf out of his father's book though, and guessed that now was the time to tell his commander what he'd done. But the older man beat him to it.

"Today I received a request for recommendations for the SEAL division. You can understand my surprise at finding out that you'd already applied. They're interested of course, but want my recommendation before proceeding any further. My problem is; what do I tell them?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I should have advised you of my intentions."

"Yes, you should. Why didn't you?"

"I - " Keel paused to clear his throat. "I don't know sir."

The older man sighed. "Yes, you do, you just don't want to tell me. And that's fine. You've had a tough time recently, and I guess you need a change. To be somewhere where you can take it all out on yourself or others. But if I tell them that you'll never get in, and quite frankly I think the SEALs would be the best place for you."

"Sir?" Keel looked sharply over at the other man in surprise, having never expected his commanding officer's support for the transfer.

"If you can avoid walking into the first bullet that heads your way, I think you'd be a great asset to the Teams, and I'd be proud to be the one that puts you there. But I can't lie to them. Show me that you're in control, and I'll give you that recommendation."

"Thank you, sir," Keel smiled tentatively. "You won't be disappointed."

*****

Sam lay back in post-coital contentment, wondering if life could get any better. Laura's head was on his shoulder, her dark hair pouring over his chest, light breaths ghosting across his skin, and he played with her hair as he counted his lucky stars.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

Laura rolled on to her front, looking up at him with a serious expression. "I - I'm not really sure how to say this..."

Sam had the insane impression that, if they weren't in bed after a particularly passionate bout of lovemaking, this was about to be a 'Dear John' conversation.

"What?" he asked, bringing a hand round to stroke her jaw. "You're not about to dump me are you?" he chuckled, then froze as he saw her face. She said nothing, she didn't need to. "But why? I mean, we're a terrific team, what about the job -?"

"Sam, stop," Laura said quietly, and he was compelled to shut up. "It's been great and I wouldn't change a thing, but it's time to call it a day. I'm being sent to a new posting."

"But - I don't understand. Please Laura, I need to understand," Sam begged.

Laura reached up to stroke his jaw. "I told you Sam, it's time to call it a day."

**

"It's time to call it a day..." The words rang around Sam's head as he answered the urgent summons into MI6. He didn't know what he was supposed to be feeling, didn't understand why she'd left him. She'd calmly got dressed, collected her things and left him. Christ, he'd even been thinking that maybe one day they'd get married. It had been so perfect.

**

When he walked out of MI6 just over twenty-four hours later, the world crashing down about his ears, Sam knew exactly why she'd left him. She was a double agent. She'd used him, then discarded him like so much rubbish. MI6 was seeing red over the fact that one of their top agents had turned out to be a spy for the Russians, and that meant that they'd been relatively easy on him in their haste to backtrack and find out where their screening had gone wrong.

But that didn't stop him burning, hurting with bitter anger, hatred and betrayal. Being a private individual he didn't really open up easily, but he had to her. The humiliation he'd just spent the last twenty-four hours going through as MI6 personnel waded through his private life, picking it apart, was too much to bear, had left him feeling far too exposed. Even Stephen Allen, his controller and mentor, hadn't been able to prevent the ripping apart of his life on paper, echoing his reality.

He vowed there and then that he would never leave himself that exposed again.

But the vow didn't stop the confused bitter pain that ran rampant round his heart and soul.

*****

"Fuck! Kappen's down! We're cornered!"

"We've been set up!"

"Fucking Intel's screwed us again!"

"Target acquired! But the tunnel's blocked!"

Gunfire ricocheted off walls in the darkness. Spurts of white fire streaked the blackness.

Keel listened to all the information pouring in from his team; as Exec, with Kappen down he was next in line and he barked orders as he ran to a new position, spraying his way with bullets. "Cracker, get Kappen out of there! Jack, Silver, you're closest, cover them! Dooley, Haze, I'll divert! Target has priority! Jack, extraction is from point Zulu in sixteen mikes! Get to it, guys!"

Ducking bullets he set charges, creating the diversion needed but leaving himself exposed to enemy fire. He was laying the final charge when the first bullet ploughed into his thigh, spinning him away before the detonator was primed.

With an adrenaline-fuelled howl, he took hold of the burning explosion of pain and used it in turn to stoke the adrenaline higher, firing randomly. He finished the final charge and, suddenly aware that he had nowhere to hide, bolted after his team with a yell.

Another bullet scraped his side, and he stumbled and fell. But he picked himself up and kept running, limping heavily. Not fast enough; the explosions, when they came, lifted him off his feet and threw him, stunned, into a heap of tarpaulin.

When his head cleared enough for him to focus, he immediately registered that the gunfire had reduced dramatically. There were still spurts in the distance, telling him that either some of his men were still under fire or the enemy was chasing ghosts, but his way seemed clear now.

He heard Jack's calm voice over the headset, "Headcount... missing one. Where's Keel?"

"Extraction's still a go, Jack!" Keel yelled at him. "I'll be there if I can!"

"Phoenix is on her way down, Keel, better make it fast!"

"On my way!" Keel pulled himself to his feet and limped onwards as best he could, despite the dizziness and pain.

He heard Jack's shouts over the headset but couldn't make them out, saw the helicopter, Phoenix, drop for extraction. He was so close.

Gritting his teeth, he made one last effort, sprinting raggedly as Phoenix rose into the air. He reached out, snagging a skid with a yell as his torn side ripped further open. Hands reached down and pulled him inside.

"Target?" he gasped, trying to slow his breathing.

"Safe and sound," Haze raised the bound man's hands. "And being a good little dawgie."

"Kappen?"

"Better than you," Cracker replied. "Got nutted, nothing bad."

"Good job," Keel slumped back to the floor of the helicopter, too exhausted to do any more and with the adrenaline fading, allowed the pain to take over.

"Should have had Silver back you up, Keel. Didn't need two of us," Jack said quietly, when the others weren't listening.

"Judgement call," Keel grinned though it showed as a grimace. "Now give me that damn morphine."

Jack applied the morphine tab and, as Keel slid into numbed euphoria, he said, "No change there then. One of these days, your judgement calls are gonna get you killed, then who's gonna keep the rest of us out of trouble, huh?"

"You Jack, who else?" Keel slurred. "Y'don't need me 'round t'do it."

"Yeah, yeah, heard it before. See y'on the flipside."

*****

Sam's face was expressionless beneath the balaclava as he slit the man's throat. A small part of him felt sick, but that was quashed and forgotten in the blink of an eye. He had a mission to complete, papers to acquire, and nothing would stand in his way.

He knew full well the reputation he was rapidly gaining as a cold, ruthless bastard, but quite frankly didn't care. He'd made sure he wouldn't care again. He saw the worry and disappointment in his father's eyes when they met up, and that was the one thing that could crack the icy façade he'd built around the white-hot pain of betrayal. His father had never liked Laura, and that only added weight to the emotional detritus that he was trying to lock away.

He didn't visit his father much anymore.

Sliding stealthily through the darkened house, he made his way to the study and rummaged through the papers there. Failing to find them, he started work on the safe.

He froze at the sound of a soft click.

"Our informant was spot on the mark," came a rough voice.

"Indeed. I suggest you surrender quietly, Mr. Curtis. We have you adequately covered, I assure you."

Sam put his hands up and turned slowly, allowing one of the men to frisk him before tying his hands behind his back and removing the balaclava.

"My, but you really are a cold fish," observed the man by the door, studying him.

"Evan Lisle, I presume?" Sam asked flatly.

"The same. Now, I need you to take a message back to your MI6 masters. Tell them they can't touch me, I know their every move. Mr. Yeates, make an example of Mr. Curtis, then send him home. Oh, and Mr. Curtis, you will behave while Mr. Yeates deals with you, won't you? I'd so hate for anything to happen to, let me see, that reformed prostitute of yours - Annabelle Brown, wasn't it? Or maybe your father? Or his lovely wife? Oh, but you don't really care much for her, do you? Tell your masters I know everything there is to know about you all. I can destroy each and every one of you, rip the entire organisation apart."

Sam felt as though he'd been kicked in the head. How could Lisle know so much? There were things that only Laura had known... only Laura... how could she...? Even knowing she'd been a double agent, he'd thought there had been some feeling, but this was beyond... beyond betrayal... it hurt so much that it was beyond pain... almost didn't hurt any more...

The next fifteen minutes passed in a blur of agony for Sam as Yeates worked him over thoroughly, before leaving him lying bleeding and choking on the study floor.

Lying perfectly still as he tried to hold back the nausea that threatened to drown him, Sam focussed on the ropes binding his wrists. Once freed he sat up stiffly, groaning as he felt ribs grating, spiking sharp pains meeting the thundering in his head. With shaking fingers he undid the ropes that had been looped around his ankles, then made another attempt at the safe.

It took him far longer than it should have done as he cursed his failing vision and palsied hands, but eventually he opened it and found the papers with the distinctive Cyrillic script he was after inside. Swaying and staggering, he made his way over to the window.

**

Sam slumped on the park bench, barely able to keep his eyes open as throbbing pain assaulted him in ever increasing waves. He'd already been sick once as he waited for his controller to arrive.

When Stephen Allen sat down next to him, Sam gratefully handed the papers over to the man and, knowing that he was in the company of the one man he trusted as completely as he ever could, allowed himself to slip to the side and pass out.

**

When Sam was fit enough to return to work, it came as a surprise to discover that nothing had been done about Lisle despite having all the evidence they needed in the papers he'd retrieved.

Within a week, he found himself packed off to Germany.

*****

Keel fumed as he was forced to hold his position on Carter's orders. The goddamned moron didn't know his ass from his elbow, and it was going to test his team's skills to come out in one piece under the man's insane leadership.

This was his team. They worked well together and, while he understood the reason for someone else being in charge on this op, he had argued long and hard against Carter. But he had been overruled, his commander seeing it as pure sour grapes on his part.

Keel had repeatedly denied that. He completely understood that as he was the team's key member on this mission, tasked with flying the jet they were attempting to steal, he couldn't be the leader, especially not with his personal policy of seeing every member of his team out before extracting himself. But Carter had a reputation, and Jack had had first hand experience of that reputation. Although no one would stand against Carter, Keel trusted Jack and believed it when he said that almost every whispered accusation was true.

And now he was witnessing it himself. A four year old could have pointed out the gaping holes in the man's tactics. And it was noticeable that Carter kept himself as safe as possible; a relative term, of course, but it was hardly teamwork.

Carter finished his orders, then Jack's voice came over the headset.

"Hey, CK. See y'on the flipside."

"On the flipside," replied Keel, with a humourless smile at his team's nickname for him; Chris Keel equals Clark Kent equals Superman. "You better make it or I'll have your ass." At least Jack was Exec on this op, and would do his damndest to keep the team safe within the constraints of Carter's orders. Though Keel was tempted to make sure Carter was taken out, just so that Jack could take over.

At that moment the thought was pure maliciousness. Ten minutes later, he rammed the butt of his gun against Carter's head as Silver's dying scream echoed over the headset.

"Carter's down! Jack!" he yelled.

"Jack's down, CK!" came Haze's voice, slightly panicked. "We're routed!"

"Shit! Sit tight! I'm calling for extraction!"

One minute later, Keel was cursing a blue streak. Extraction was in twenty mikes. Too long, even if they could get out.

"Haze, report! Give me an angle, I'm coming in blind here!"

"Dooley's down but functioning, Cracker's okay. I don't see... wait, South East corner, looks like a fuel truck. Unprotected."

"Terrific. Anything else?"

"Nope. Will advise."

"K, one distraction coming up. Op's aborted. Extraction point Tango, Haze. Got it?"

"Er, yeah... yeah, got it CK."

"What about you, CK? Another judgement call?"

Keel snorted as he made his way round the hangar. "Glad you could join us, Jack. If you see him, Carter's walking wounded. Make sure he stays that way."

"Roger, 'n' with pleasure." Jack's voice was almost gleeful, although he sounded drunk.

Keel swore when found the fuel truck; it was aircraft fuel - if he blew it up, he'd take out the entire hanger and half the airfield with it. No time for subtlety now. He pulled out the hose and splattered some of the fuel over the warehouse floor, ducking as bullets skidded his way, sparking on the floor and kindly setting the pooling fluid on fire for him.

Predictably enough, the bad guys ran towards the fire, towards the fuel truck to pull it out of the way - and towards him. Realising their mistake, no more bullets were forthcoming but, trapped, Keel fell below a sea of men punching and kicking him. A few good blows of his own, and he wriggled away long enough for them to forget about him as they focussed on getting the truck out of the hanger.

Once outside he made his way towards extraction, gratified as Haze called a headcount; they were all there waiting for him to join them. Except Silver. Hiding behind crates, they heard the gunfire cease as panicked cries emanated from the hanger and men ran towards it.

"We should find out what's happening in there," Carter spoke up from his seat on the ground. "There's time before extraction." He stood up cautiously.

"You're walking wounded, Carter," Keel told him. "You're not in charge anymore."

"If I had been, you'd have been in that jet by now," Carter scowled.

"Sure, and the rest of the team would be dead," snarled Keel.

"That's what expendable forces are for."

Keel went to hit him, but Haze pulled him back. He shook Haze off and went back to studying the movements of the men by the hanger through bino's. He never saw the gun connect with his head.

**

When he came round, he was on the floor of Phoenix with Dooley looking down on him. "What the fuck - ?"

"Carter, CK. Sorry, didn't see him in time."

"Where is the motherfucker, I'll give - "

Dooley shook his head. "Body bag. Death by friendly fire."

Shit, shit, shit. Keel put a hand to his aching head. "Whose bullet?"

"Jack's."

Chris glanced around, looking for Jack. "Where - ?"

"With Carter."

"Oh, Christ..."

"Carter ordered Haze back in. They got him before he even got close. Jack tried to stop it, but Carter hit him; he was already hurt and Carter must've made it worse, but he shot him before he passed out."

"Headcount?" Chris asked faintly.

"Carter, Haze, Jack and Silver are out of the game. Cracker's critical, and you and me are walking wounded."

Keel looked away, grimacing in futile anger; it should never have happened.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of progressive snapshots...

Sam was pleased; he'd made contact with his target, no mean feat in the ever-changing political structure of war-torn Bosnia. He'd been invited to dinner that evening, and he intended to make the most of the opportunity. It was the only one he was going to get.  
  
There was a constant itching at the back of his neck that he'd had ever since being posted outside the UK, a feeling that bordered on paranoia that someone was out to get him or put him out of the way somewhere. There was nothing to support the feeling, but with every assignment he'd taken on the feeling had grown. Every time he was in contact with Allen, he was told that investigations were underway into the identity of any possible informant within MI6 as well as the whereabouts of Laura Henwood. But to Sam, as weeks turned into months into... it seemed to be taking an awful long time, and he had the vague impression that his report had never been taken seriously.  
  
Sam took time to prepare himself at his lodgings, then made his way to dinner.  
  
  
  
Less than an hour later he was tied to a chair in the dining room of his contact who was nowhere to be seen. Lisle and Yeates were there though, as was Stephen Allen, and as the familiar pain of betrayal came crashing down, Sam cursed himself for trusting the man. After Laura, he should have known better.  
  
They would have killed him then if his supposed contact's young daughter hadn't chosen to wander into the room. Instead, they bundled him into a car and he used the reprieve to work himself free of his ropes. Yeates had missed a small knife when he'd frisked him, but then again, it had been very carefully hidden.  
  
Yeates and Lisle in the front never heard Allen die with his throat cut. Yeates tried to pull his gun as Lisle gained a second mouth but failed, only able to keep driving as the knife was held to his own throat. He was forced stop the car and, three seconds later, he'd joined his companions.  
  
Sam got out of the car and, with a face as hard as granite, started walking towards the border.  
  
He didn't look back.  
  
*****  
  
Harry Malone picked up the last two files of potential recruits. These two intrigued him; mirror images in so many ways, yet so different. Instinct told him he wanted them, but the reports said differently.  
  
He looked at Keel's first. The man was trouble according to his current commander, insubordinate, argumentative and impulsive. But, according to the same man, Keel was also one of the best team leaders on his staff, with the citations and awards to prove it. He was fiercely loyal and protective of his team, and thought fast on his feet. All the training reports were good, but the CI5 psych team had gone firmly against recommending the man. They'd trawled his history, personal as well as psychological as was standard practise, and didn't like what they'd come up with. Keel was unstable, they said, and the recent loss of his team along with the investigation that went with it could only be detrimental to the man's mental health.  
  
Psych didn't like Curtis either, their veto equally as firm. This was one cold individual, ruthless and emotionless, probably bottling. Sooner or later he'd break, and when men like him broke they usually managed to take everyone around down with them. And they were firmly opposed to CI5 being involved when he did. His controller, Carl Dietrich, was very positive though, commenting on Curtis' ability to plan to the last detail, his absolute dedication and professionalism. Dietrich had nothing but high praise for the young man, indicating that he thought that Curtis was probably one of the best there was.  
  
Malone put the files down. These were two men he'd have to see for himself before making the decision.  
  
*****  
  
Malone watched the figure in the distance, dressed in fatigues and carrying a full kit as he ran across the rough desert. Malone was sweltering in his business suit and could only imagine the heat the man must be feeling.  
  
He waited patiently as the figure drew closer, sliding down ditches and climbing up the slopes, without any apparent concern for the minor bumps and scratches he had to be accumulating.  
  
When Keel finally arrived Malone studied the sweat soaked man, breathing hard and caked in dust, taking in the determined expression and guarded blue eyes.  
  
"Can I help you?" the American asked suspiciously, and Malone's mouth twitched in almost a smile.  
  
"I suspect, Mr. Keel, that I may be able to help you."  
  
"I don't need - "  
  
"I think you do. I understand that you're under suspension pending the investigation into your last... escapade. That a court-martial may be in the offing."  
  
"Yeah, well, shit happens."  
  
"I also understand that your superiors are rather keen to have this whole mess swept under the carpet."  
  
Keel shrugged. "Whatever."  
  
"Tell me, Mr. Keel, if I were to offer you the opportunity to make a fresh start, what would you make of it?"  
  
Keel blinked slowly. "I'd say you were trying to feed me bullshit."  
  
"What if I were to offer you the resources to track down your family's killers."  
  
The younger man shook his head with a disbelieving snort. "I'd still say you were bullshitting."  
  
"But what if I wasn't?"  
  
"Go peddle it to someone who cares. I'll take whatever they throw at me and deal with it." Keel turned back to his run, and left Malone standing thoughtfully.  
  
*****  
  
Malone's first glimpse of Sam Curtis was not one that immediately inspired him with confidence. He'd gone to the young man's London home unannounced, and his insistent ringing on the doorbell had apparently dragged Curtis out of bed at three in the afternoon with an appalling hangover. He was unshaven, with bloodshot eyes, though the vest he wore indicated his physical fitness to be on top form.  
  
Malone asked him the same question he'd asked Keel.  
  
"Start over?" Curtis laughed, a harsh, frozen sound. "Don't make me laugh. Been there, done that, got the scars to prove it."  
  
"What if I gave you the resources to track down Laura Henwood?"  
  
"You'll be asking me to trust you next. Don't even go there."  
  
"You'll have to start trusting sometime, Mr. Curtis."  
  
"I don't have to do any such -."  
  
"I understand that your... presence... is making certain people within MI6 rather uncomfortable."  
  
"That's my business, not yours. And I'd appreciate it if you buggered off back into whatever hole you crawled out of."  
  
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Curtis."  
  
Malone walked slowly back to his car, deep in thought.  
  
*****  
  
Despite their initial refusal, Malone had finally 'recruited' both Curtis and Keel, though neither were particularly willing. A little pressure and a word in the right ears had forced both of them into choosing CI5. He hoped that, through the training program and subsequent probation period, they would see that the choice was the right one. An unwilling operative was no good to him, and he would use kid gloves to turn these two around.  
  
He didn't want ordinary agents, he wanted special ones, the ones that stood out from the crowd. He wanted these two, and whatever Harry Malone wanted he usually got.   
  
He'd put them each in different training groups to see how they managed individually. Overall they fared very well it seemed and his confidence in his instincts increased. They were certainly both very troubled young men, but he was certain that he had the key to turning them around, to making them into a good team. He would accept nothing less and was looking forward to proving the psych team wrong.  
  
*****  
  
Gunfire rattled through the darkened warehouse and Keel leaped at the courier, pushing him to the floor behind some packing crates. The absence of a team snapping reports through a headset was slightly unnerving, but he rapped out his own observations automatically, checking first that Curtis had a secure position.  
  
"Two high, south wall, one low, alcove east wall."  
  
"I see them," came Curtis' voice across a short distance of open floor, the man ducking as wood splinters exploded near his head.  
  
Keel snapped off a shot at the shadow lurking in the alcove as Curtis loosed a shot in the same direction, and the figure dropped apparently lifeless to the ground.  
  
Primary mission: keep the courier safe. Secondary mission: deliver the courier.  
  
The secondary was obviously a no go, so...  
  
"Take the baby out, Curtis, I'll divert," Keel barked the order out an instant before he charged from his position, zigzagging to the alcove. He checked the body there before taking the stairs that lead to the balcony above.  
  
Keeping close to the wall, he found a secure position opposite the gunmen and away from where he'd left Curtis and the courier. Spotting a pipe running above the two, he smiled to himself and shot, satisfaction setting in as the sudden jet of scalding steam had the two men yelling and running.  
  
He glanced down at the floor and saw that Curtis and the courier had vanished. He turned to go back out, but a click in the darkness told him that a fourth man was lurking somewhere. He froze, listening intently.  
  
Cold steel pressed against his neck.  
  
*****  
  
Curtis bundled the courier back out the way they'd come in, seething inside. He did not take orders like that from anyone. Given another moment, he could have examined all possibilities and formulated a plan that simply had to be more sensible than charging head-first into the fray, not to mention a way of achieving all the given objectives.   
  
But no, Keel hadn't even given him the chance, treating him like a grunt and eliminating any possibility of delivering the courier intact in one easy action. In fact, Curtis thought sourly, it seemed as though the American actually liked the kamikaze approach.  
  
Outside, he pushed the courier into the car and turned the ignition, keeping the lights off even though it was gone midnight.  
  
"What about your partner?" asked the courier, staring at the building.  
  
Curtis blinked at him then looked towards the now silent warehouse. "The brief was to keep you safe," he snapped, shifting the car into gear. "And that's what I'm trying to do. I can at least achieve half the mission."  
  
"Would now be a good time to mention there's a backup delivery point?"  
  
"What?" Sam stamped on the brake. "That wasn't in the brief!"  
  
"No, it wasn't meant to be. Need to know and all that."  
  
"Well, I'd say I need to know right now."  
  
*****  
  
Keel charged out of the warehouse, wiping away the tiny trickle of blood trying to seep into his eye. That last bad guy was splattered on the warehouse floor and two others were running about somewhere, but they were no immediate threat.  
  
He stopped abruptly. The car had moved a few yards and was standing abandoned with its doors open. He looked around for any sign of Curtis or the courier, but saw none. Checking the car over, he found no immediate indication of what had happened. Taking precautionary cover behind some racking he pulled out his mobile and tried calling Curtis.   
  
Damned voicemail.  
  
Swearing violently, he could only assume the worse, that they'd been caught or were maybe on the run, though there was no gunfire. Keeping to the shadows he returned to the car, pulling out a small torch and examining the ground around the vehicle. He found scuffed tracks, two pairs of footprints that he concluded were Curtis' and the couriers.  
  
So, they'd run somewhere.  
  
He followed them, jogging as he kept half an eye out for the two missing gunmen and any other interested parties.  
  
*****  
  
Curtis was furious at the apparently incompetent planning of this set up. Whose stupid idea was it to have a secondary delivery point a hundred yards away from the primary?  
  
He preceded the courier into the glorified shack, gun drawn, ready for anything.  
  
A low voice came out of the darkness in Russian. "Tolstoy?"  
  
"Niet, Chekov," Sam replied, holding his hands up. These people would be skittish, and he'd been warned that he'd have to give up his weapon. Of course, he had others secreted about his person, and was sure that he would have access to at least one should the need arise.  
  
Hands firmly took hold of both him and the courier, leading them through the darkness to a dimly lit room.  
  
He smiled grimly to himself. The delivery would be made, and the courier kept safe. Mission would be accomplished.  
  
*****  
  
Keel was confused, and could only go with his instincts, which were screaming that something was out of place. He'd followed the tracks to the rough building, slipped inside and taken out two guards before finding the dimly lit room.  
  
Curtis and the courier were standing at gunpoint, with Curtis conversing in some foreign language with one of the gunmen. Keel had no way of knowing if there were any more gunmen lurking, as he had no knowledge of how great these people's forces were.  
  
For all he knew these could be the people they'd been supposed to meet, though that was unlikely, as surely Curtis would have contacted him to let him know. There were three men holding Curtis and the courier; with the advantage of surprise, he could take them on.  
  
He was about to charge through the door, when another guard barked a question at him from the dark in that same foreign language.  
  
He lashed out and made contact but a larger body ploughed into him, throwing him against the door and through it into the room. On the floor, he only had eyes for his attacker who was aiming a rifle at him, safety clicked off, finger squeezing the trigger.  
  
Keel fired from the hip and all hell broke loose.  
  
*****  
  
Malone glared at the two angry and dishevelled agents in front of him. He hadn't expected their first mission to go smoothly, and would never have given them that assignment if he'd had the faintest inkling that a third party might have been involved.  
  
He wanted to rage at them, dish out the punishment they deserved, but they weren't ready for that and he could easily have either one resign, which he didn't want.   
  
Coldly and clinically, in a parody of the currently fashionable style of post-crisis management, he made them go through the entire operation from start to farcical finish and explain to him how they could have done their job better.  
  
It really didn't surprise him that Keel had ordered Curtis around, and that Curtis had taken umbrage. Nor did it surprise him that Curtis had clinically cut Keel out, taking the assignment upon himself, failing to communicate new information to his partner or that Keel had charged in head-first, regardless.  
  
It was unfortunate that the delivery had failed to take place and that the courier was in hospital with, thankfully, superficial wounds. And it was fortunate that Curtis and Keel had come out of it with nothing worse than minor cuts and bruises.  
  
He still felt confident in his decision though. There was always a honeymoon period and it was rare that a good partnership started off on good terms. There was nothing really wrong in what each had done, apart from a general lack of communication. It was simply a personality clash, different experiences generating different reactions to the same situation.   
  
At least he'd had the satisfaction of giving them both a dressing down for failing to inform headquarters of the unexpected developments. Again, unsurprising given their previous occupations, but nevertheless he was able to show his teeth to them without provoking any rash decisions on either man's part.  
  
He wasn't ready to give up yet.  
  
*****  
  
Keel leaned on the bar, taking his third Bud slower than the first two which he'd chugged straight down. Fuck, but they even watered down the bottled stuff in this godforsaken country.  
  
He hated that he'd been forced into joining CI5, and wondered if he should have lied in his report of that last SEAL mission. Dooley had wanted to, but Keel's own sense of honour had prevented that. Tweaking the truth a little, maybe, that was common practice, but outright lies? Never. He hadn't expected Carter to have had such heavy backing, although he still believed that both he and Jack had done the right thing. It had been made clear that he could take the transfer to CI5 with honour and glowing recommendations, in which case Jack, Haze and Silver would all be buried with full honours and Dooley could continue with his rising career, while Cracker would be invalided out with full pension.  
  
Otherwise...  
  
Otherwise, Jack would not be afforded full honours and Dooley, Cracker and himself would be up on charges. Cracker's pension would be affected, Dooley would be demoted with little chance of recovering his career, and Keel himself would be court-marshalled. And while Chris didn't give a flying fuck about his own fate, he couldn't do that to the others. Especially as, in his eyes, they hadn't done anything wrong.  
  
He briefly thought about quitting CI5, but he wasn't a quitter, never had been, and wasn't about to start. He didn't think he could work with Curtis, but then again, he'd be damned if he'd be the one to give up and request a different partner.  
  
He didn't understand why the Englishman hadn't kept up communication. If you're in a team, you tell each other what you're doing, what your position is, share observations. That way you avoided friendly fire and minimised nasty surprises. Curtis had simply cut him out. And Keel was not used to being cut out by anyone.  
  
Okay, so just maybe he shouldn't have thrown orders at Curtis, and maybe he should have asked the Englishman's opinion before wading in at the warehouse. Maybe even waited a little longer at the shack before jumping in, though that was reaching a bit in his opinion.  
  
But shit, trying to work with Super-solo-spy Curtis was a lost cause.  
  
Where he came from, sitting around making plans and taking votes while in action was fatal; making decisions on the run was essential unless you actually had the luxury to take time out. Which came back to the reason why you always told the rest of your team what you were doing.   
  
Chris frowned as he realised that his bottle was empty, and ordered another.  
  
"Hello, sailor," a soft, tipsy voice breathed in his ear.  
  
Chris glanced to his left and saw an attractive brunette smiling semi-seductively at him.  
  
"Hi yourself," he smiled at her. He wasn't really interested, but hell, anything to brighten up his day, "come here often?"  
  
"No, but I think I might just have to make a point of it in future," she giggled.  
  
His beer arrived, and he asked her if she wanted a drink. Before she could answer a large meaty hand spun him round.  
  
"Oi! You keep your filthy mitts off my girl!"  
  
Chris looked at the girl who was happily giggling at them, and mentally classed her as a conniving bitch.  
  
"She's all yours, not going anywhere near her," he said, backing off slightly.  
  
"He was going to buy me a drink," the girl supplied helpfully, and Chris rolled his eyes.  
  
"You bloody foreigners, think all our women are easy. I'll teach you - !" The meaty hand caught him by the scruff of the neck.  
  
*****  
  
Curtis lay in bed with a blonde wrapped around him. Tracey, he thought her name was; nice figure, talented mouth and no brain, just the way he liked them, especially when he was pissed off. She was a way of releasing excess emotion in the form of a physical act. While she gently snored against his chest he stared into the darkness, organising his thoughts and feelings from the day's events.  
  
He didn't like working with a partner, hadn't done since Laura, so he'd known before he'd even met Keel that it wouldn't work and was now doubly certain. And he particularly didn't like working with a macho git who thought he could boss him around like some incompetent grunt. He still couldn't believe that Keel had come charging in like a bull in a china shop without apparently waiting to assess the situation. It was the fastest way to get yourself and probably anyone else in the immediate vicinity killed. It was only because the Russians had been more intent on getting themselves out of there and had panicked that they'd come out of it relatively in one piece. Sam just couldn't understand the gung-ho mentality.  
  
There was absolutely no way he could work with someone like that, and while he knew he wouldn't be allowed to work without a partner, he was certain there had to be someone else who was of a more like mind who he could train to his own specifications. But he wouldn't be the one to request a new partner, his pride wouldn't let him; he never failed and this mission grated because he had, even though it hadn't been his fault, although he still took his share of the responsibility for that failure. It would be Keel who failed first in their partnership though, not him.  
  
He conceded that maybe he should have told Keel about the secondary delivery point, but with Action-man busy playing war-games in the warehouse, it had seemed unnecessary.   
  
The whole thing wouldn't work.  
  
Surely Malone would see that?  
  
Actually the stubborn old bastard probably wouldn't. Malone was an immovable object when it came to his own agenda, as he'd found out. It had been made clear to him that the higher ups at MI6 had decided that he was trouble. If he'd stayed on, he could expect to find himself farmed out to a backwoods nowhere to sharpen pencils for the rest of his working life. That was if he was lucky and didn't find himself at the bottom of the Thames instead. He wanted to make a difference, help stop the flow of corruption that he could so easily have become a part of. CI5 had been the only route left open for him to do that.  
  
Tracey snuffled, and Sam decided he'd had enough of her. He'd sorted himself out and now she was just an intruder, so he told her to get. She looked at him in bleary surprise, then shrugged her acceptance and, after dressing, left the flat.  
  
Sam felt dirty for using her but hell, that's what tramps like her expected.  
  
*****  
  
Malone felt his confidence in his instincts slipping for the first time as he watched Curtis and Keel ignore each other behind their computer monitors.   
  
He hadn't been best pleased at having to pull Keel out of the cells of a police station for being drunk and disorderly, a minor charge since he'd actually been brawling in the street. Keel, however, had seemed to take pride in the fact that the other man had come worse off, and Malone had seethed as the American had loudly returned the obscenities his opponent had yelled from his own cell on their way out.  
  
Now, Keel was withdrawn yet rebellious, surly insubordination being the order of the day, almost as if he were trying to get himself kicked out or reassigned without having to ask. Curtis had taken an almost superior attitude when he'd heard about the incident, which had naturally spread like wildfire round the office, and dropped snide insinuations at any given opportunity, apparently designed to drive Keel away. Nothing emotional or libellous of course, not from Curtis. Just clinical observations taken to their extreme.  
  
Their behaviour was that of a pair of overgrown children squabbling in the playground.  
  
Malone rubbed at his eyes as he pondered on what he should do with them. He'd keep them on milk runs for now, but he couldn't do that forever. But neither would he admit defeat.  
  
*****  
  
Malone sat back in his chair as Curtis and Keel had yet another stand up row in the middle of the main office. Well, Keel was having a stand-up row, while Curtis glared and spoke in low icy tones that nevertheless still carried into his office. It was getting tired, the same old arguments again, and Malone had no idea what to do next.  
  
"- the fuck did you think you were doing? You didn't think that maybe sharing - ?"  
  
"What, with you busy intercepting bullets? How exactly did you expect - ?"  
  
And on and on. It had long ceased to be interesting for the rest of the office who simply ignored the pair of them, except for another new recruit. A young woman by the name of Tina Backus, who looked as though she should still be in school even though she was highly skilled in the use of computers and explosives. She was staring at the pair of them through narrowed eyes from behind her PC, looking as though she intended to do something about it.  
  
The arguments always ended with one of the pair storming or stalking out, and this time was no exception. It was Curtis that stalked out, jaw clenched in an otherwise bland expression.  
  
Backus caught hold of a still blazing Keel and pulled him into a corner, talking to him in a low voice. Malone watched with interest as Keel's shoulders slumped and he reluctantly allowed the petite Canadian to lead him into the tiny smoking room by the ladies toilets.  
  
Leaving him there Backus vanished, only to return leading an equally recalcitrant Curtis to the same room and shoving him inside. She went in after him and shut the door. A few moments later she came back out, a determined look on her face, and closed the door behind her. Fifteen minutes later the door cautiously opened as Keel and Curtis both looked out, both checking to see if it was safe.   
  
They slipped out, both with identical mulish and petulant glowers, yet united in their desire to avoid Backus.  
  
  
  
Malone never found out what Backus had said to them, but his curiosity was quenched by the change that came over Curtis and Keel. He barely noticed it himself at first; the arguments continued, but slowly they became sprinkled with concessions to each other. There was no overnight friendship - maybe that was something that would never happen - but over time they seemed to develop a mutual respect and finally started to gel as a team.  
  
And all the time Tina Backus was there in the background, occasionally taking one or both of them aside for a brief discussion that seemed to calm whatever the current storm was about.  
  
Malone could only wonder at her ability to make them listen, and took note.  
  
*****  
  
Keel peeked out from his position behind a support column, checking that the group of hostiles below with their hostage, a young woman, had not made any significant moves, and catching sight of Curtis across the way.  
  
Using basic hand signals from his SEAL days that he'd taught Curtis, he signalled his intentions to the Englishman. They both wore headsets, but the acoustics in this place made verbal communication risky.  
  
He frowned slightly, but waited as Curtis acknowledged, adding his own observations and indicating that Keel should wait a moment. The Englishman's voice came quietly through his earpiece, the complex hand signals as yet beyond him to communicate his plan. Keel grinned broadly as he listened, then signalled his agreement. The man had guts and the man could plan.  
  
With slick, fast actions he tied off his rope and readied himself for the jump, watching carefully for Curtis, ready to intervene prematurely should the need arise.  
  
Automatically Keel whispered, "See you on the flip - " but bit the familiar lucky phrase off. That had been for a different lifetime.  
  
  
  
Curtis slipped through the shadows, down the stairs, then paused before making his move. He smiled ruefully to himself; Keel could certainly think fast on his feet, and it had only required a small twist to the American's plan from him to make it perfect in his eyes.  
  
He was about to entrust himself into Keel's hands, not for the first time recently, and he wondered fleetingly at how easy it was seeming to become.  
  
He heard Keel's bitten off catchphrase, something he'd heard before. "Hell, more like," he replied softly, liking the feeling of having someone he t - someone competent covering his back. "See you in hell."  
  
Taking a deep breath he called out to the hostiles, surrendering his weapon and himself.  
  
  
  
Keel watched closely as, after much uncertain argument from the hostiles, Curtis was pushed to his knees, hands behind his head, next to the hostage. He heard the Englishman's reassurances to the hostage over the headset, and waited for the signal.  
  
Curtis shifted and Keel moved, sliding down the rope, semi-automatic blazing. The hostiles ran for cover as Curtis, producing a knife from who knows where, cut through the hostage's ropes.  
  
Diving for cover behind an old oil drum, Keel continued to lay covering fire as Curtis pulled the young woman to safety. When the Englishman called out clear, that he was giving cover, Keel made his customary suicide run through erratic bullets from the hostiles in a bid to win his own freedom. He glimpsed Curtis covering him and took advantage, diving into a shoulder roll that took him skidding to safety.  
  
*****  
  
"Well done, gentlemen. Operation successful, I would say." Malone bestowed a small, satisfied smile upon Curtis and Keel.  
  
"Yes, sir," replied Curtis blandly.  
  
"Thank you, sir," Keel acknowledged, and Malone dismissed them both, staring after them.  
  
They were almost there. Malone could almost tangibly feel it coming together. In the field, they respected each other, listened and communicated with each other, complemented each other. In the field.   
  
But a good team needed to be more than that. Malone's gut instinct had been right, and after a rocky start Curtis and Keel were now on the right track - largely thanks to Tina Backus, granted.   
  
Though Malone didn't expect the two young men to be friends, he did expect them to relate to one another, and the awkward atmosphere that still stood between them when in the office did not sit well with him.  
  
He wanted a team that operated like a well-oiled machine. Well, he had the machine and it worked. He just needed to find the oil.  
  
*****  
  
Keel stood by his car in the parking lot, watching as Curtis rummaged around in the trunk of his own vehicle. He was fully intending to go home, have a shower, find a bar and get drunk as was his wont after an assignment. Tina had been nagging at him take Curtis with him, to get the Englishman doing something other than work or gym, and although he balked at the thought of spending time in the aloof Englishman's company... damn it, but he was lonely.  
  
"Hey, Curtis!"  
  
  
  
Curtis looked up, startled, as he retrieved his gym bag from the boot of his car. "What?" he asked the American, who was frowning awkwardly.  
  
"I was going to the bar - uh - pub later. Wanna come?" The expression on Keel's face was an intriguing mixture of hopefulness and full expectation of rejection.  
  
About to use the gym as the perfect excuse to say no, Curtis hesitated. After one of his own tirades at Keel's moodiness, Tina had rather snappily pointed out to him that Keel was probably feeling homesick. She herself certainly was, but Spencer and Richards had been spending a lot of time introducing her to new friends. She didn't see anyone doing the same for Keel.  
  
And so Curtis found himself nodding. "Which pub and what time?" He almost laughed at Keel's astonished start.  
  
"Woolpack? Eight-thirty?"   
  
*****  
  
"What a dive," Curtis muttered over his beer.  
  
"At least it's social," snapped Keel, paying for the drinks and hopping onto a stool.  
  
"Yeah, like a disease," Curtis brushed his hand over the stool seat with a distasteful wince before sitting down.  
  
The drinks were consumed in an awkward silence, each of them thinking that this had been a really bad idea.  
  
Curtis drained his pint in readiness to make his excuses to Keel who was picking at the label of his fourth bottle of Bud, a far away look in his eyes. A part of him thought that maybe he should make sure that Keel didn't get himself in trouble, intent as he so obviously was on getting rat-arsed. But he didn't owe Keel anything, and he really wanted to get out of here.  
  
The excuse on his lips died as a big meaty hand clamped down on Keel's shoulder and the American spun out of his seat to face the man, the look in his eyes familiar to Curtis now. The look that said Keel was up for a fight and ready to take on anyone who wanted one.  
  
There was clearly some unfinished business between them, and from the sharp conversation Curtis gathered that this was the man that had got Keel arrested before. But this time the man had friends, although Keel just grinned wolfishly at that, and Curtis realised with a sinking heart that the American was just as happy to take the lot of them on.  
  
As Keel followed the men outside, flexing his fists in eager anticipation, Curtis sighed and slowly made his own way to the exit.  
  
The fight had already started by the time he'd paused to admire a blonde with an excessive cleavage and Keel was certainly holding his own against the four men, although they seemed to be slowly making more contact than he was.  
  
Sighing again, Curtis waded in.  
  
  
  
Two of his opponents abruptly vanished, giving Keel a second wind. A sharp sidekick to a groin, quickly followed by a double fisted slam to a jaw, and all four men were on the ground, moaning. He looked around with some surprise to see Curtis standing over two of the men, flexing a bruised hand, a sardonic smile on his face.  
  
Keel grinned briefly, wiping at his split lip with the back of his hand, but it slipped as he became aware of the two police officers standing to the side of him.  
  
The same ones as before. He groaned. Malone was not going to be happy.  
  
Unexpectedly, Curtis drew out his ID and told them in no uncertain terms to go away, amusement flickering in his eyes. And they did.  
  
"Thanks," he said to the Englishman as the officers returned to their car, "but - "  
  
"Why? No idea. Come on, let's get you home before you cause any more trouble."  
  
*****  
  
"You remind me of my mother, y'know that?" Sam slurred from the floor where he sat, legs splayed, at the base of an armchair, contemplating the bottle of Jack Daniels he'd raided from Chris' kitchen in lieu of something decent.  
  
"Excuse me?" Chris exclaimed, his feet over the back of the sofa and head hanging off the edge of the seat so that he regarded Sam upside down through alcohol blurred eyes.  
  
"You. You're always fighting..."  
  
"Y'mean t'tell me your mom plays fisticuffs outside bars?" Chris asked, giggling at the image of, for him recently discovered, Nora Batty putting her dukes up.  
  
"Ye - No! Not like that. She liked the underdog, lost causes, even had a St Jude medal for it, and you - you're the same. Always defending the weak an' helpless. Well, good luck to you, I say."  
  
"And you're not?" asked Chris absently, still wrestling with the image of Nora Batty taking on Mike Tyson, at the same time as registering that Sam was talking about his mother in the past tense.  
  
"Me? Nah, only take on stuff I can win, me."  
  
"Bullshit, Sam. I've seen you. Heard you talking to the hostage, reassurin'. You didn' have t'do that. Didn't have to put yourself in the middle. Other times, too."   
  
"Had to be sure she didn' panic when y'did the blaze of glory Rambo thing, Keel, nothing more. N'besides, I knew you were up there, knew y'wouldn't let me be shot."  
  
"Trust me, d'ya Curtis?"  
  
"Trust? No. No way, never, no how. Never trust. But," Sam shrugged, floundering for words to contradict himself, "Jus' knew you were there t'cover me, is all."  
  
"Good. 'Cause you shouldn't trust me. Y'never know. Malone's right, y'know. His rules."  
  
"What? Never get emotionally involved? Whassat got to do with anything?"  
  
"Nah, the other one..."  
  
"Always have an escape route...?  
  
"The other other one, y'know, on your own resources. Always a team, but always on your own, too... s'the best way."  
  
"That doesn't make any sense, Keel. Blood must have all gone to your head."  
  
"Prob'ly."  
  
"What were we talkin' about?" Sam examined the square bottle he held intensely.  
  
"No idea. Was it important?" Keel replied, deciding he'd had enough of lying upside down and sliding down to lie on the sofa.  
  
"Not an effin' clue." Sam's gaze wandered around the American's flat. There were photographs that he couldn't focus on, but what did catch his attention was a polished wooden box. He lurched to his feet to get it.  
  
"Whatcha doin' Curtis?" Keel muttered from the sofa.  
  
"Research. I wanna know what's in here. C'n I look?"  
  
"Feel free, s'nothing interesting."  
  
"Liar, these're... old..."  
  
"Yeah, Curtis, they're old. Were a - a present from my grandfather..."  
  
"Some present, a pair of old guns."  
  
"Duelling pistols, old. Were 'riginally used in a duel over the freedom of a slave. Kinda passed down the family since then, I guess."  
  
"Lemme guess, must've been fighting for 'is freedom, and won?"  
  
"Her freedom, and yeah, we won."  
  
*****  
  
Malone considered Curtis and Keel through the glass. He wasn't entirely certain whether the two were becoming worst of friends or best of enemies, but one thing was certain, they were finally connecting.  
  
And that, in his view, was the important thing.  
  
The psych team could go and be damned. He had his team, all he had to do was make sure he kept them. He was well aware that he no longer needed to worry about either of them resigning, was now confident enough that even were one of them to make a decision like that, that it would be in his power to persuade them to stay, one way or another.  
  
However, he was well aware of the skeletons in their respective cupboards; psych wouldn't let him forget them, and he hoped that each of them could be steered through those potential quagmires if and when the occasions arose.  
  
With a smile twitching about his lips, he listened to the conversation outside...  
  
"Hey, Curtis! Betcha can't do this...!" Keel had his Smith and Wesson and Curtis' Berretta in his lap and was grinning evilly as he took the safeties off and juggled them, throwing them high into the air as he leaned back in his seat with his feet on the desk.  
  
"You're shot away, Keel! I wouldn't be stupid enough to try!" yelled Sam incredulously, apparently unable to believe his partner would do something so unbelievably stupid and dangerous.  
  
"Chicken!"  
  
"Am not! I'll show you...!"  
  
Keel laughed as he threw the guns at Curtis who caught them deftly, handling them like hot potatoes, then relaxing and trying not to smile himself as he glared at his partner when he found the clips in both guns to be empty.  
  
Malone sighed contentedly. He'd worry about skeletons another day.  
  
*****  
  
"Sir? What's this all about?" Curtis asked Malone, following the chief into his office.  
  
"I'm not exactly certain, Mr. Curtis. I rather hope that everything will become clearer once Mr. Keel arrives."  
  
"But... Chris has taken a few days - "  
  
"I am well aware of Mr. Keel's plans. His leave has been cancelled and he should be arriving here at - ah, I believe I hear him now."  
  
So could Sam, and his partner was irate if the snapped greeting to Backup was anything to go by. Indeed, the cyclone of fury that was Chris Keel stormed into Malone's office.  
  
"What the hell is this?" the American launched into Malone in a manner that left Curtis reeling. "You have no right! You know what -!"  
  
"Mr. Keel!" Malone's authoritarian tone sliced through Keel's anger, stopping it dead. "I do know how important your - leave - is to you, and I will do everything in my power to ensure that you are where you were planning to be the day after tomorrow. However, something has come up that requires your personal attention." The CI5 chief's voice softened. "I wouldn't have recalled you if I'd had any other option, you do know that."  
  
"Yes, sir," Keel bit back his anger with visible effort, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and seemed to notice Sam for the first time.  
  
Curtis read the looks and undercurrents between Malone and Keel, wondering exactly what was going on. They were both obviously talking about something of which he had no knowledge. He wondered if Malone knew what was behind his partner's recent erratic behaviour. Withdrawn and morose one moment, hyperactive and kamikaze the next, similar to when he'd first arrived at CI5 but more extreme somehow. Sam had even contemplated going to Malone with his concerns, but if there was one thing he'd learned about Chris Keel, it was that he was almost as protective of his privacy as he himself was. Therefore, he'd consciously decided not to say anything unless things became bad enough to jeopardise other lives. On the last assignment Chris had almost seemed to be trying to get himself killed, and Sam knew that he would have said something if these few days of leave Keel had booked hadn't been imminent.  
  
"Miss Backus, please get hold of Dylan Stone at the..."  
  
"He's already holding sir, line 4."  
  
"Thank you. Mr. Stone, good morning." Sam saw a blond man of around his own age on Malone's monitor and noticed the way Chris narrowed his eyes, folding his arms defensively.  
  
"Good morning, Mr. Malone, have you been able -? Ah, I see you have. Chris, you're looking well."  
  
"You too, Dylan. So what's this all about?" Chris' voice was as cold as Stone's, and even Malone seemed puzzled at the frost in the air.  
  
"An assassin by the name of Myron Hardcastle has moved from our back yard to yours, Chris. I asked for you by name because it's suspected that he may have been involved in a certain part of our shared history. I have information that Hardcastle is planning something big in Birmingham. The files are being transmitted right now."  
  
Chris seemed frozen, his face pale as he stared at the monitor without seeing.  
  
"Chris," Stone spoke again, "other than stopping what he's planned, I need confirmation that Hardcastle is the man responsible for... for..." The CIA man seemed unable to continue, looking away from the camera.  
  
"For the dead," Keel whispered, his eyes still focussed somewhere else.   
  
Stone talked with Malone for a moment longer before logging off. The CI5 chief regarded Keel for some minutes before speaking. "You know the rules, Mr. Keel. Are you...?"  
  
"You promised me this," Keel interrupted icily. "You can't take it away from me now."  
  
"Yes, yes I did. But I need to be sure you will conduct yourself with the professionalism required to see this case through."  
  
"Always," Keel snapped bitterly. "I won't do anything you'll regret, sir."  
  
"I certainly hope you won't. Now, I suggest you access those files. Mr. Curtis, a word if I may?"  
  
Malone rose from his chair and closed the door behind Keel.  
  
"Can I take it that this is something of a personal matter for Keel?" Curtis asked Malone.  
  
"Yes, yes, you could say that. And I'm not happy about letting him continue, but I'm rather afraid of the consequences if I don't." Malone returned to his seat, looking Sam in the eye. "Mr. Curtis, no matter what other objectives may crop up on this assignment, your primary mission is to keep Mr. Keel from doing anything *he* is going to regret. I'm afraid it is up to him to tell you what this is all about, but suffice to say, if Hardcastle is the man Stone thinks he is, then Mr. Keel will, in all probability do something... extreme."  
  
"I will do my best, sir."  
  
"That's all I ask, Mr. Curtis. All I ask."  
  
*****  
  
Curtis watched Keel stalking ahead of him through the bowels of the NEC in Birmingham with concern. They knew that Hardcastle and his henchmen were down here somewhere, and Curtis had already had to pull Keel up more than once from just charging in guns blazing.  
  
The Englishman was more than pissed off by the American's silence as regards whatever it was between him and Stone and Hardcastle, his need for all the facts before going into a situation screaming at him. He didn't like it one bit and had given Chris many an opportunity to open up - had even tried to force it from him - but all it had earned him were angry silences and the door slammed firmly in his face.  
  
Curtis was so focussed on his partner that he never heard the scrape behind him until it was too late. Something smashed hard into the side of his head and he knew nothing more.  
  
*****  
  
Voices whispered above him, merging and spinning in time with the pain that swelled and throbbed to a crescendo in his head. Sam cracked an eye open, wincing as dull light pierced laser bright into his skull, and the voices separated, clarifying into words that his bruised brain fought to comprehend even as he fought against the nausea that threatened to rise and choke him.  
  
He was lying, hands and wrists bound, in the corner of a small room. He focussed on a shadowy shape next to him, and peered up through fractured vision to see Chris looking down at him, worry plain in his eyes.  
  
The voices were coming from the other side of the room, two men with guns apparently waiting for Hardcastle to join them.  
  
"How's the head?" Keel asked.  
  
"Cut it off and I'll be fine," Curtis muttered.  
  
"You'll do - oh, fuck..."  
  
Curtis squinted to see Hardcastle enter the room.  
  
"Well, well, what do we have here?" the big man asked, crouching in front of the two agents.  
  
Curtis tried to come up with a suitably sharp barb, but only succeeded in coming up with his lunch instead, retching violently on the floor.  
  
"Chris Keel, CI5," Sam heard his partner tell the man. Even through his pain he was incredulous that Keel would volunteer the information straight away without waiting to ascertain the situation fully. But Chris continued, "perhaps you've heard of me?"  
  
"No, can't say as I have. Should I?"  
  
"Well, what about Stone, then. Teresa Stone?" Chris' voice was almost pleasant though the seething undercurrents could not be mistaken.  
  
"Teresa St - ? Oh, oh now, Keel and Stone, yes, I remember. What was it, two, three years ago? It was, let me see, must have been about this time of year, the 21st I think, which would make today the anniversary, wouldn't it? Beautiful day as I remember."   
  
"It was you." Chris' voice was flat now, emotionless, and for some reason that scared Sam more than the anger. "You murdering bastard - " A harsh slap of flesh on flesh stopped Keel's voice.  
  
"I do not murder! I kill only in the name of the cause. Unfortunate casualties of war, but not murder!"  
  
"Yeah, right. What do you call indiscriminate fire on a bunch of civilians?"  
  
"A necessary deceit. I could not risk my target being identified. It was a perfect opportunity, a wedding with so many distinguished guests. The target could have been any of them... wait a minute, you were... you were the groom. Teresa must have been the bride. Yes, I remember thinking how beautiful she was..."  
  
Sam felt Chris shifting beside him and finally got the strength to sit up, leaning against his partner to offer moral support. He couldn't quite process what was going on here through the persistent pounding in his head, but by the rigid tension throughout his partner's body Sam knew that the American needed him there to ground him.  
  
"So, who was the target?" Chris asked calmly.  
  
"Ah, now you see, there's the tragedy. That particular fiasco remains in my memory because it was such a waste. The target wasn't there. Just a junior grunt in the CIA, whose nose was just a little too inquisitive. The bride's brother in fact, Dylan Stone. I was quite sure he would turn up to his little sister's wedding, but he didn't."  
  
"And you say you're not a murderer," Chris ground out, harshly. "You killed, you murdered my wife, our parents, best friends and a dozen others for nothing!"  
  
"Yes, and I regret that. But as I said, casualties of war. You should appreciate that with your background. Enough chat. You'll remain here for the duration. I'll only kill you if I have to. Oh hang on, you'll still be here when the bombs go off. Never mind, nice knowing you."  
  
Sam felt Chris' muscles clenched so hard they were shaking and tried to calm the American down with assurances that they'd get out of this. But Keel didn't seem to hear him, instead staring ferociously at the doorway through which Hardcastle had disappeared with his men.  
  
Pushing back the blistering pain in his head, Sam put together everything he'd heard, and when he finally realised what Chris had to be going through swore hard. Right at that moment, Malone could be damned; he'd help Chris hammer Hardcastle into the ground himself.  
  
While he was thinking about it all, he'd been working on his ropes. Either the knots were badly done, or maybe they simply hadn't been careful with an unconscious man, but the main knot slipped and he worked an arm free.  
  
When they were both free, they armed themselves with their guns, which had been left just outside the door.  
  
"Get out of here, Sam," Keel told Curtis. "You're in no shape to do -"  
  
"I go with you, Chris. Make sure you - " he bit off what he was about to say.  
  
"Make sure I don't do something I'll regret? Oh, I'm damn sure I won't. You don't need to baby-sit me, Curtis, no matter what Malone's ordered you to do."  
  
"Chris, I'm coming with you. No argument."  
  
Keel stared at him, and Sam felt his heart drop. There was no sign of the man he knew in those grey eyes, just an empty shell with a single fiercely determined purpose.  
  
"We'll do this together," Sam tried again. "Come on, we can't let the bastard get away." A brief flicker of something like gratitude crossed Keel's face then they were off, running into the darkness.  
  
*****  
  
Curtis leaned against the wall, desperately trying to focus, to keep the world standing upright as it teetered and rolled around him, yells and grunts from the fight in front of him thundering around his head. The henchmen were secured, but Keel had laid into Hardcastle with a raging fury that surpassed anything Sam had ever seen before in his life. The terrorist was fighting back hard, and to Curtis it seemed that the two men were taking each other apart in a chaotic maelstrom of arms and legs, hands and feet.  
  
He had to stop this before they killed each other.  
  
He couldn't see any opening to take out Hardcastle, settling instead for pulling Keel roughly away. Hardcastle rolled, reaching for one his henchmen's guns. Sam brought his own gun to bear but was taken by surprise as Chris shoved into him, snatching the gun, aiming and pulling the trigger in one smooth motion.  
  
Hardcastle flew away across the room and Chris scuttled backwards against the wall, still pulling the trigger. Two, three, four bullets exploded in Hardcastle's chest and head before the clip was empty, and Chris let the gun drop to the floor as he stared at the body lying grotesquely in the corner.   
  
Long minutes passed before Sam regained enough strength to move.  
  
"Chris? Chris?" He stumbled over to his partner, reaching out to shake him, taking in the many cuts and bruises already swelling. "Chris, snap out of it! We have to get the bomb squad in." Slowly, shocked blue eyes turned uncomprehendingly towards him. "Chris, come on. It's over."  
  
"No Sam, it'll never be over," the American whispered brokenly.  
  
*****  
  
"Hey, dad. Sorry I'm late this year, but uh, I guess you'd forgive me. We got him. We got the bastard that murdered you all. He's dead now.  
  
"And, you know, I don't really feel any better for it. I never thought I would. But I did think I'd find some sort of closure, thought I'd be able to put you all to rest. Doesn't work like that though does it? Especially now that I know it should never have happened. I just feel like there's a big gaping hole inside, and I can't even fill it with directed anger or purpose anymore, just, I don't know, just... frustration.  
  
"Malone's worried I'm gonna quit. He's not bad really, has given me open-ended leave to get my head together. I haven't told him what I'm going to do yet, but like I said to Sam, I owe the old man big time one way or another so I guess I'm in there for the long haul.  
  
"Sam's been great through all of this. I should apologise to him when I get back to England. He backed me all the way, even when he had no clue as to what it was all about. He's a good guy, a great partner. Could have done a hell of a lot worse. But how could I tell him about you guys without sounding like something from Melrose Place? And besides, he wouldn't have understood.  
  
"He understands now though. I have to go now, dad, have to go see Terry. Kinda feel sorry for Dylan though, you know. For a long time I hated him for not being there. I can't help hating him now - it was his fault, although I guess it wasn't really - but he must be blaming himself. And if I were him, I don't honestly know if I could survive. Anyway, look after mom. Bye, dad, and I'll talk to you next year."  
  
*****  
  
Curtis stood in the doorway watching the table where the meet was supposed to take place. He knew that Keel was about somewhere, ready to jump in should he be required, and that brought a feeling of security that Curtis was becoming accustomed to, despite his best efforts to not take it for granted.  
  
In an attempt to infiltrate a smuggling ring Curtis had been set up as a highly skilled thief, and this was to be his first meet with a gang member. The ring's security had been tight, communication only ever through e-mails from anonymous servers, until he had been told to meet a woman with bright red hair and a Stargate shopping bag at the coffee bar he was now standing opposite.  
  
He knew her immediately as she took a table, the red wig broadcasting her arrival and the bag only confirming her identity. But he knew her in more ways than one. His heart lurched in his chest, his stomach somersaulted and he felt light-headed and weak as he recognised the strong, beautiful face of Laura Henwood.  
  
His mobile rang and Curtis answered it woodenly.  
  
"Curtis? Sam? What's happening?" Keel's voice was demanding and it took several attempts before Curtis found his voice.  
  
"I - I can't - it's - " Sam swallowed, closing his eyes, forcing unwanted feelings back down and out of the way. When he spoke again, it was with far more confidence. "It's a no go, Keel. I know the woman and she knows me."  
  
"Shit, but we won't get another chance!"  
  
"I do know that, Keel, but if I waltz in there she'll know it's a set up."  
  
"Damn. Wait, I'll go in there instead."  
  
"What? But these people are looking for a thief, not an overgrown boy-scout."  
  
"Yeah, well, I may not be up to your standards on the breaking and entering front -"  
  
"Breaking being the operative word where you're concerned."  
  
"- but I've done my share of poking around in the dark."  
  
"I'll just bet you have."  
  
Keel sniggered over the phone. "It's your call, Sam. Just don't forget that this could well be the only opportunity we have to put a stop to whatever these guys are planning."  
  
Sam lowered the phone and watched Laura sipping at a Latte, a part of him he'd thought dead and buried surging through him with more life than it had any right to. He badly wanted to go and confront her, demand answers, slap her senseless, kiss her passionately, remind her of what they'd had...  
  
But the job came first.  
  
He raised the phone. "Go for it."  
  
*****  
  
Chris leaned against the damp wall and wondered for the millionth time how he managed to end up in such messes so frequently. It had seemed to be going so well, Laura accepting him into the ring with just the right amount of caution. But she'd strung him along.  
  
She'd known from the first instant that it was a set up, before the meet had even been arranged. She'd been expecting the real Sam Curtis, and once she'd got Chris Keel back to their base of operations had turned on him with a cold viciousness that made Curtis seem positively warm and fuzzy.  
  
A sedative in a cup of coffee had him too disoriented to fight off her hired thugs and, bound hand and foot, he'd quite literally been thrown downstairs into the cellar. He'd landed badly before rolling down the stairs, and guessed his collarbone was broken by the sharp burning pain coming from there now. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious or asleep, but was pretty certain that he was in some deep shit.  
  
Voices mumbled through the door at the top of the stairs and Keel had to force himself to focus beyond the waves of pain to get an idea of what was happening. Concentrating, he recognised Laura's voice, soft and sultry, a far cry from the icy bitch-queen that had railed at him earlier, and the other belonged to, to Curtis? What was he doing here?  
  
The door opened and Keel had to squint against the bright light that shone through. Footsteps tapped their way down the stairs and a hand grasped his chin, turning his head from side to side. Blinking rapidly, Keel focussed on a crouching Curtis, internally shrinking away from the clinical scrutiny his partner was giving him.  
  
Irrationally, he felt that this Sam Curtis was not the one he was used to. Cold detachment seemed to shield a bitterness, defeat? No, betrayal, and Keel couldn't work out why that would be the case. He knew that Curtis didn't trust easily, and wondered if that might have something to do with this Laura bitch.  
  
Looking over Curtis' shoulder he could make out another figure silhouetted at the top of the stairs, and guessed that it was Laura. Returning his gaze to Curtis, he found the man sitting back on his haunches, staring at him calculatingly. It was Keel's turn to wonder exactly how far he could trust the Englishman, and at this moment he didn't think it was very far at all.  
  
He wanted to say something, but didn't know what game was being played.  
  
"So?" Laura's soft voice came from the top of the stairs and Curtis stood, looking coldly down at Keel.  
  
"Do what you like. Kill him."  
  
Keel's very blood froze at the calm callousness in the Englishman's voice, and he couldn't help but believe that Curtis really would let her kill him.  
  
**  
  
Keel struggled despite the blazing agony in his shoulder as the flunkies cut the ropes around his ankles and dragged him up the stairs. He was still struggling when Curtis floated into his wavering vision and yanked his head back by the hair.  
  
"They're letting you go," he hissed. "So go, while you still can."  
  
Keel abruptly stopped struggling as he recognised the genuine fear in Curtis' eyes, not quite hidden behind the icy shield that blanked his features. 'Like hell' he thought, but kept his mouth shut as they dragged him outside.  
  
**  
  
Having used one of the two unconscious flunkies belts to hold his injured arm immobile, Keel squatted, gun in his other hand, leaning against the wall as he listened to what was happening in the other room.  
  
"So, Sam, I heard you refused to take another partner after me. What happened to change your mind? I can't see as your American friend has either the sophistication or, ah, bedroom talents to work as well as we did. And it's obvious that you don't particularly care for him. Probably saved his life, ironically enough."  
  
"I wasn't given the choice, and I suppose we worked together well enough," Sam's voice was strangely subdued. "But no, he's not you."  
  
"So why did you come here? If you don't care for the American, why did you agree to exchange yourself for him?"  
  
"I - " there was a long pause, then, "I had to see you. I had to know... what we had. Was it real?" Curtis' voice was a flat whisper that Keel had to strain to hear.  
  
There was another pause before Laura responded, sounding heartfelt. "Yes, Sammy. It was real, and you have no idea how much it cost me to put my job first."  
  
Sam gave a harsh sob, and it took Keel a moment to realise that Curtis was laughing. "I have no idea? You're wrong, Laura. Not only did you walk out on something special, but you gave my... all the things I told you... I might as well have told Allen, the entire world, myself and saved you the trouble. You're the one who has no idea. No idea how much that hurt."  
  
"I am sorry, Sam, really. But you know what they say, all's fair - "  
  
"- in love and war. Yes, you taught me that one all too well." The deep hurt and bitterness in Curtis' low tone shocked Keel with its intensity. The possibility that the cool, aloof partner he'd thought he knew could ever have been so deeply in love went against everything Keel had learned about him.  
  
"Sam? Sammy? What are you doing?"  
  
"I'm taking you in, Laura. Two of my other colleagues have just cleared this building with all the evidence we need."  
  
They had? Keel automatically looked around, but could see no sign of CI5 activity. Curtis was either bluffing or had some kind of signal arrangement.  
  
"No! You bastard!" Laura's sultry tones had vanished to be replaced by frigid anger, and Keel heard Curtis cry out in pain as the wall reverberated with the impact of a body.  
  
He'd heard enough and pushed himself up the wall, grimacing as he kicked the door in and followed through, leading with his gun. The door rocketed right back into his injured shoulder and he yelped at the flash of pain, staggering back as the door swung back open.   
  
Laura was standing in the doorway, her gun aimed right at him, cold fury painting her face.  
  
A single shot from inside the room and she crumpled to the floor.  
  
Cautiously, Keel re-entered the room, gun trained on Laura. She was undoubtedly dead, that single shot taking her through the heart, her eyes blank and staring.  
  
Curtis was slumped half over a table next to the wall clutching at his ribs, gun dangling from nerveless fingers as he struggled to draw gasping breaths.  
  
Stuffing his gun into his belt as he heard Backup's familiar tones, Keel reached out his hand to reassure Curtis. The Englishman looked up at him, bewildered. "You came back. If you hadn't distracted her I'd be dead..."  
  
Keel gave him a half-smile and shrugged with one shoulder. He still wasn't sure exactly what had happened, and he couldn't deny that at times Curtis scared him, but he knew that the Englishman had only done what he'd had to. "So you told her to kill me. We're partners. We forgive each other our little idiosyncrasies."  
  
Curtis' gaze fell to the body on the floor, and for the first time Keel saw real, deep emotion naked in the Englishman's eyes. "You were right," Curtis said softly. "It's never over is it?"   
  
*****  
  
"Hello, dad, it's me... yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just wanted to talk to you... no, nothing in particular, just wanted to chat... I know, it has been a long time hasn't it? How's Eleanor?... Glad to hear it... you sound happy... yes, I'm sure she does... Do you want to meet up sometime? Have dinner? My treat... yes, both of you, I mean it... well, any time really, I have a few days off... You caught me, dad, it's nothing serious though, just a couple of cracked ribs... yes, I'm sure I'm fine... no, no there's no one current in my life... no, no one to give me some TLC either... Hey, dad, do you remember Laura?... Yeah, the ice queen, Chris calls her that too... I know, dad, I know you said she wasn't good enough for me, I know you said she was too stuck up, but well, I still disagree... I know, anyway, our paths crossed the other day... no, no I - I'm not getting back with her... no, I'm not... I just - I just wanted you to know that I've got her out of my system... yeah, yes, I'm fine, really... well, okay, maybe not yet, but I will be... yes, for once in my life I'm sure... Chris? Oh, he's my partner at work, have I not mentioned him before?... I haven't? Well, you'd like him... not at all stuck up... he's stuck by me through all the crap with Laura, too... What? Do I...? I - I... well, yes, I suppose I do trust him, he's solid... What was that?... Dinnertime? Okay, I suppose you should go... but dad?... about Eleanor... give her my love, won't you?... Yes, I mean that... bye dad."  
  
*****  
  
Malone looked at the files in his hands.  
  
He'd had to terminate one of his best and oldest agent's contracts. A good man by the name of Murphy. Seduced by Laura Henwood into giving up classified information on the operation to infiltrate the smuggling ring.  
  
Curtis didn't need to know that, Malone decided, and closed that particular file. He looked at the other file, a simple report. Dylan Stone had put himself in the line of fire and died honourably. There but for the grace of god, he thought.  
  
His mind drifted back to the beginning when he had recruited the two young men, one unstable, the other bottling up, both wound up and waiting to explode. Now, those same young men had grown strong enough to face the skeletons in their cupboards and survive.  
  
He was proud of them.  
  
Not that he would ever tell them.  
  
*****  
  
Curtis and Keel watched the casket move slowly behind the curtains, then followed the rest of the mourners outside.  
  
They stayed until everyone else had gone, flanking and supporting Backup who was doing the PR thing with the dignitaries there. She was probably the most affected by Malone's death, though none of them were unaffected. In hindsight Malone must have known that he hadn't got much longer to live, as Backup's role in the office had become more elevated over recent years. And it now became clear that he had been grooming her to take over, a move that surprised everyone - she was just too young. She still looked far younger than her thirty-five years, but had developed a wickedly devious knack in using that to her advantage.  
  
Now she was acting chief, until the Minister decided to replace her or make the position permanent.  
  
When it was just the three of them left, Curtis and Keel invited her to the local pub to celebrate the old man's life rather than go to the official function.  
  
She declined; she had to go to the function whether she liked it or not, but ordered them to go enjoy themselves. Spencer materialised from nowhere and took her away.  
  
*****  
  
"Are you going to stay on?" Sam asked Chris over a beer.  
  
The American blinked. "Sure. Why, you thinking of leaving? Don't like the idea of working for Backup?"  
  
"Me? No. I mean, what could I do? Glorified bodyguard? Security? Politics? Don't think so. It's just - you said once, you only stayed on because you owed the old man. Now he's gone - "  
  
"I still owe him. And so do you if memory serves. And anyway I was pissed when I said that, and you know how much bull I talk when I'm pissed."  
  
"True," Sam smiled. "So you're not tempted to make an honest woman of Marie, then?"  
  
Chris laughed. "Marie? Oh no, we're just good friends. Sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less, and with her shift work on top of my hours it's more often less than more. What about Janice?"  
  
Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Same old same old. 'Dear John' note through the door."  
  
"Shame. She was nice."  
  
"Good, too," Sam laughed and winked. "Nah, just keep 'em coming and I'm happy."  
  
They each took a swig of beer, then Sam asked, "D'you think Malone expected to peg it this early?"  
  
"Early? He was a hundred and eighty if he was a day. I wouldn't exactly call that dying young. But by the coffee all over the desk, I don't think he was exactly expecting the heart attack, no."  
  
"No, I mean, I just got the impression with this whole thing with Backup that he wasn't quite ready."  
  
Chris considered that for a moment. "I think he just didn't know, so he did what he could as he could. And I think he died happy in his pinstripe suit at his desk."  
  
"You could be right. How do you think we'll go?"  
  
Chris stared at him. "Sam, I really do not want to be thinking about my own mortality right now. I think about it way too much as it is."  
  
"I know, but then again I suppose we all know you're going out in a blaze of glory." Sam frowned, staring into his beer. "But me, I always assumed I'd die in bed with my socks on. Now I'm not so sure. I've never even thought about dying in the field, except when I'm in pain anyway."  
  
"You're getting maudlin Sam, snap out of it."  
  
"But I - "  
  
"Sam, snap out of it and look over there."  
  
"But - oh, nice... legs..."   
  
*****  
  
Creeping through the disused amusement arcade, Curtis and Keel met up near the lift on the ground floor, each keeping a wary eye out on their surroundings.  
  
"Clear?" asked Keel.  
  
"Clear," acknowledged Curtis. "Except that Ryan got away."  
  
Keel nodded. "Backup's gonna have our balls."  
  
"If she lets us off lightly," Curtis agreed.  
  
A motor whining had both agents spin and aim their guns at the lift, spreading out to surround the closed metal doors. The seconds stretched into eternity before those doors creaked open, and the agents' fingers tightened on their triggers.  
  
Then they relaxed with relieved smiles as they saw the occupants. Ryan was in a heap on the floor, ably covered by their grinning backup.  
  
"What would we do without you, Spence?" asked Curtis.  
  
"Get your balls chewed off, I expect," Spencer told him, hauling his prisoner up and escorting him outside.  
  
"I miss Backup," Keel said, staring after Spencer.  
  
"Why?" asked Curtis, "Spence is as good as Backup ever was."  
  
"I know, but he just doesn't do..." running out of words, Keel waved his hands in the air, drawing what he was trying to say.  
  
"Ah," Curtis grinned. "No, you're right. Spence really doesn't do those tight little nurses uniforms too well."  
  
"Right, or those natty little fishnet camouflage shirts either..."  
  
*****  
  
"Sam?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You know that blaze of glory thing you keep bringing up periodically?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Think this might just be it."  
  
"Don't give up, Chris."  
  
"I'm not giving up. I never give up. I just can't quite see any way out of this."  
  
"If it's any consolation, me either."  
  
"That is not a consolation, Sam. The way I see it, we only have one slight remote miniscule possibility of a chance."  
  
"Straight through the middle?"  
  
"Straight through the middle."  
  
"Suicide, Keel."  
  
"Blaze of glory, Curtis. Besides, staying here is suicide."  
  
"Unfortunately, for once in your life, Keel, you're right."  
  
"I'm always right, Curtis, it's just not always the same right as you."  
  
"Naturally. Watch your back."  
  
"You'll do that, same as I'll watch yours. Never changes."  
  
"See you in hell, Chris."  
  
"Yeah, Sam, see you in hell."  
  
*****  
  
Tina played the salvaged vidcam footage from the warehouse again and again, trying to see if there was any way there could be a mistake.  
  
There wasn't.  
  
She watched time and again as Curtis and Keel did a damned fine impression of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid's last stand, the terrorists standing over their bullet riddled bodies right before the building exploded.  
  
Two lives and they'd saved a major city, saved millions from death.  
  
But their bodies had never been found. Probably incinerated in the explosion.  
  
Finally, Tina switched off the player and stamped the files KIA. She'd have to arrange a service. A part of her was thankful that neither had living next of kin listed.  
  
She picked up the only contents they'd left in the personnel vault. A small box in Curtis' and a larger one in Keel's.  
  
She opened them carefully and found a small gold medallion in one, and a perfectly preserved set of duelling pistols in the other. She stared at them for a long while, wondering what they meant. And didn't have a clue what she should do with them.  
  
It would come to her, and in the meantime they'd be safe in her desk.  
  
She picked up her jacket and left the silent office, switching off the light. If she listened carefully, she could hear the sounds of people elsewhere in the building, but here, for once, it was quiet.  
  
Somewhere in the darkness, though, an echo from the past whispered,  
  
"Hey, Curtis! Betcha can't do this...!"  
  
"You're shot away, Keel! I wouldn't be stupid enough to try!"  
  
"Chicken!"  
  
"Am not! I'll show you...!"  
  
Squeals of childish laughter faded away into the dark and, with only a slight hesitation, Tina left the memories behind.  
  
FINIS

 


End file.
